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THE 

POEMS 

OF 

THOMAS DAVI S 

WITH NOTES, HISTORICAL ILLUSTRATIONS, ETC. 

AND AN 

INTRODUCTION, 

BY JOHN MITCHEL. 



Thy striving, be it with loving ; 
Thy living, be it in deed. 

Goethe. 



NEW YORK: 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET, 

BOSTON :— 128 FEDERAL STREET, 

MONTREAIi : — COB. NOTBE DAME AND ST. FBAKCIS XAVIEB 8TS. 

1866. 






Brief, brave, and glorious, was his young caretr, 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foei , 

For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not outstept 

The charter to chastise which she bestows 

On such as wield her weapons. He had kept 

The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. 

Byron 

W. It. Shoemaker 
7 S H)6 



CONTENTS. 









PAGE 


INTRODUCTION, BY JOHN 


MITCHEL 


i 


INTRODUCTION, BY THE 


EDITOR . 


ix 


PART I. — NATIONAL BALLADS AND SONGS 




TIPPERARY 






31 


THE RIVERS 






33 


GLENGARIFF 






35 


THE west's asleep 






37 


Oh! FOR A STEED . 






38 


CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS . 


41 


A BALLAD OF FREEDOM 


. 


. 


43 


THE IRISH HURRAH 


. 


. 


47 


A SONG FOR THE IRISH 


MILITLA. 


48 


OUR OWN AGAIN 


. 


. 


60 


CELTS AND SAXONS . 


. 


. 


53 


ORANGE AND GREEN 


• 


. 


56 


PART II. — MISCELLANEOUS 


SONGS AND BALLA 


DS. 


THE LOST PATH 


. 


. 


59 


love's LONGINGS 


. 


. 


61 


HOPE DEFERRED 


. 


. 


62 


eibhlin a ruin 


. 


. 


64 


THE BANKS OF THE LEE . 


. 


65 


THE GIRL OF DUNBWY 




. 


. 67 


D-JTY AND LOVE 




• 


. 68 


ANNIE DEAR 




. 


. 69 


BLIND MARY . 




. . . 


71 


THE BRIDE OF MALLOW 




* . . . 


72 



CONTENTS. 










PAOB 


THE WELCOME 








74 


THE MI-NA-MEALA . 








76 


MA IRE BHAN A STOIR 








78 


oh! THE MARRIAGE 








79 


A PLEA FOR LOVE . 








81 


THE bishop's DAUGHTER . 








82 


THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE 








83 


MY DARLING NELL . 








84 


LOVE CHAUNT . 








85 


A CHRISTMAS SCENE 








86 


THE INVOCATION 








88 


LOVE AND WAR 








90 


MY LAND 








91 


THE RIGHT ROAD 








92 



PART III. ^HISTORICAL BALLADS AND SONGS. 



jfixzi %txit3. 



A NATION ONCE AGAIN 
LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS 
THE FATE OF KING DATHI 
ARGAN MOR 
THE victor's burial 

the true irish king 
the geraldines 
o'brien of ARA 
emmeline talbot . 

o'sULLIVAN's RETURN 

THE FATE OF THE O'SULLIVANS 

THE SACK OP BALTIMORE 

LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE o' 

A RALLY FOR IRELAND 

THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK 



93 

95 

98 
102 
104 
105 
109 
114 
116 
122 
126 
132 
137 
140 
143 



CONTENTS. 



PART IV. — HISTORICAL BALLADS AND SONGS. 









PAGH 


THE TENAL DAYS 


147 


THE DEATH OF SARSFJELD 


. 150 


THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA 


. 151 


THE FLOWER OF FINAE .... 


. 154 


THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME . 


. 156 


glare's DRAGOONS 


. 158 


WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW 


. 161 


THE BATTLE-EVE OF THE BRIGADE . 


. 162 


FONTENOY 


. 164 


THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION . 


. 168 


SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782 


. 171 


THE MEN OF 'eIGIITY-TWO 


. 173 


NATIVE SWORDS 


175 


tone's GRAVE 


. 177 


PART V. — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 




NATIONALITY 


179 


SELF-RELIANCE 




181 


SWEET AND SAD 




183 


THE BURIAL . 




. 186 


WE MUST NOT FAIL 




. 190 


O'CONNELL's STATUE 




192 


THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED 




195 


THE VOW OF TIPPERARY 




198 


A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS 


199 


A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS . 


201 


A SCENE IN THE SOUTH .... 


202 


WILLIAM TELL 






205 


THE EXILE 






. 207 


MY HOME 






209 


FANNY POWER . 






. 214 


MARIE NANGLE 






216 


MY GRAVE . 






219 


APPENDIX 




; 


221 



The sun set ; but set not nis nope . 

Stars rose ; his faith was earlier up ■ 

Fixed on the enormous galaxy. 

Deeper and older seemed his eye : 

And matched his sufferance sublime 

The taciturnity of time. 

He spoke, and words more soft than rain 

Brought the Age of Gold again : 

His action won such reverence sweet. 

As hid all measure of the feat. 

Emerson 



INTRODUCTION 



BY JOHN MITCHEL. 



At Mallow, on the river Blaekwater, in the County 
of Cork, and some time in the year. 1814, TnoMAa 
Osborne Davis was born. His father was by birth a 
Welshman, but long settled in the South of Ireland ; 
and Davis, ever proud of his Cymric blood, and of his 
kindred with the other Gaelic family of Milesians, 
named himself through life a Celt. " The Celt" was his 
nom-de-plume ; and the Celtic music and literature, the 
Celtic language, and habits, and history, were always 
his fondest study. Partly from the profound sympathy 
of his nature with the fiery, vehement, affectionate, 
gentle, and bloody race that bred him, — his affinity with 
" the cloudy and lightning genius of the Gael," — partly 
from his hereditary aversion to the coarser and more 
energetic Anglo-Saxon, — and partly from the chivalry 
of his character, which di*ew him to the side of all 
oppressed nations everywhere over the earth, — he chose 
to write Celt upon his front ; he would live and die a 
Celt. 

The scenes of his birth and boyhood nursed and che- 
rished this feeling. Amongst the hills of Munster — 
on the banks of Ireland's most beauteous river, the 
Avotidheu, Spenser's "Auniduff," — and amidst a simple 



people who yet retained most of the, venerable usager »• 
olden time, their wakes and (nner sd-caoines, their wed- 
ding merrymakings, and simple hospitality with a him- 
dred thousand welcomes; he imbibed that passionate 
and deep love, not for the people only, but for the very 
Boil, rocks, woods, waters, and skies of his native land, 
which gives to his writings, both in prose and poetry, 
their chief value and charm. 

He received a good education, and entered Trinity 
College, Dublin. During his university course, his read- 
ing was discursive, omnivorous, by no means confined 
within the text-books and classic authors prescribed for 
study within the current terms of the college curriculum. 
Therefore he was not a dull, plodding blockhead '* pre- 
mium-man." He came through the course creditably 
enough, but without distinction ; and Wallis, an early 
friend and comrade of Davis, and the author of the first 
tribute to his memory and his genius, in the " Introduc- 
tion" prefixed to this edition of his Poems, says that 
*' during his college-course, and for some years after, 
while he was very generally liked, he had, unless, per- 
haps, with some few who knew him intimately, but a 
moderate reputation for high ability of any kind." In 
short his moral and intellectual growth was slow ; he 
had no personal ambition for mere distinction, and never 
through all his life did anything for effect. Thus he 
spent his youth in storing his own mind and training 
his own heart ; never wrote or spoke for the public till 
he approached his thirtieth year ; exerted faculty after 
faculty (unsuspected by himself as well as by others) 
just as the occasion for their exertion arose, and nobody 
else was at hand able or willing to do the needful work 



and when he died at the age of thirty-one, those only 
who knew him best felt that the world had been per- 
mitted to see but the infancy of a great genius. 

His poetry is but a fragment of the man. He was no 
boy-rhymer ; and brim-full as his eye and soul were of 
the beauties and glories of Nature, he never felt a ne- 
cessity to utter them in song. In truth he did not 
himself suspect that he could make verses until the 
establishment of the Nation newspaper, in which, from 
the first, he was the principal writer; and then, from a 
calm, deliberate conviction that amongst other agencies 
fur arousing national spirit, fresh, manl}^ vigorous, 
national songs and ballads must by no means be" ne- 
glected, he conscientiously set to work to manufacture 
the article wanted. The result was that torrent of 
impassioned poesy which flashed through the columns 
of the Nation, week by week, and made many an eager 
boy, from the Giant's Causeway to Cape Clear, cut open 
the weekly sheet with a hand shaken by excitement, — 
to kindle his heart with the glowing thought of the 
nameless " Celt." 

The defeat of Ireland and her cause, and the utter 
prostration into which she has fallen, may, in the minda 
of many, deprive the labours of Davis of some portion 
of their interest. If his aspirations had been made 
realities, and his lessons had ripened into action ; if the 
British standard had gone down, torn and trampled 
before the green banner, in this our day, as it had done 
before on many a well-fought field, — then all men would 
have loved to trace the infancy and progress of the tri- 
umphant cause, — the lives and actions of those who had 
toiled in the sweat of their brows to make its triumph 



possible. It is tlie least, indeed, of the penalties, yet it 
is one of the surest penalties of defeat — that the world 
will neglect you and your claims ; will not care to ask 
why you were defeated, nor care to inquire whether you 
deserved success. 

Yet to some minds it will be always interesting to 
understand instead of misunderstanding even a baffled 
cause. And to such, the Poems of Davis are presented 
as the fullest and finest expression of the national sen- 
timent that in 1843 shook the British empire to its base, 
and was buried ignominiously in the Famine-graves of 
48 — not without hope of a happy resurrection. 

To characterize shortly the poetry of Davis — its main 
strength and beauty lies in its simple passion. Its exe- 
cution is unequal ; and in some of the finest of his pieces 
any magazine-critic can point out weak or unmusical 
verses. But all through these ringing lyrics there is a 
direct, manly, hearty, human feeling, with here and 
there a line or passage of such passing melody and 
beauty that once read it haunts the ear and heart 
for ever. 

" What thoughts were mine in early youth • 

Like some old Irish song, 
Brimful of love, and life, and truth, 

My spirit gushed along." 

And in that exquisite song, "The Rivers." Let any one 
who has an ear to hear, and a tongue to speak, read 
aloud the fifth stanza. 

" But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore, 
And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lismore ; 
There the stream, like a maiden, 
With love overladen 
Pants wild on each shore " 



Who that has once seen, will ever forget, old Lord Clare, 
rising at the head of his mess-table, in the ** Battle-eve 
of the Brigade" — 

" The veteran arose, like an uplifted lance, 

Saying, Comrades, a health to the monaich of France !" 

His " Lament for the death of Owen Roe," is the very 
heart and soul of a musical, wild, and miserable Irish 
caoine (the coronach, or noenise) — 

" Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep for aur pride ! 
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died ! 
Weep the victor of Benburb — weep him, young men and old ; 
Weep for him, ye women — your Beautiful lies cold ! 

" We thought you would not die — we were sure you would not go, 
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow — 
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky — 
Oh ! why did you leave us, Owen 1 Why did you die 1 

For his battle-ballads may be instanced " Fontenoy," and 
the "Sack of Baltimore." And his love-songs are the 
genuine pleadings of longing, yearning, devouring pas- 
sion. Perhaps, however, the most characteristic, though 
far from the finest of all these songs, is that beginning 
"Oh! for a steed I" There he gives bold and broad 
expression to that feeling which we have already de- 
scribed as a leading constituent of his noble nature, — 
sympathy with conquered nations, assertion and es 
pousal of their cause against force and fate, — and a 
mortal detestation and defiance of that conquering 
" energy" which impels the civilizing bullies of mankind 
to "bestride the narrow world like a Colossus." This 
sympathy it was which so strongly attracted him to the 



books of Augustin Thierry, whose writings he oftec 
recommended as the most picturesquely faithful and 
heartily human of all historical works. 

Space would fail us to give anything liko an adequate 
narrative of Davis's political toils through the three last 
busy years of his life. It is not detracting from any 
man's just claims to assert, what all admit, that he, more 
than any one man, inspired, created, and moulded the 
strong national feeling that possessed the Irish people in 
'43, made O'Connell a true uncrowned king, and 

" Placed the strength of all the land 
Like a falchion in his hand." 

The "government," at last, with fear and trembling 
came to issue with the " Repeal Conspirators" in the 
law. courts. Well they might fear and tremble. One 
movement of O'Connell's finger — for only he could give 
the signal — and within a month no vestige of British 
power could have remained in Ireland. For O'Connell's 
refusal to wield that power, then unquestionabl}' in his 
hands, may God forgive him ! He went into prison on 
the 30th of May, 1844, stayed there three months — came 
out in a triumph of perfect parox^-sm of popular enthu- 
siasm stronger than ever. Yet from that hour the cause 
declined ; nothing, answering expectation or commen- 
surate with the power at his command, was done or 
attempted. "Physical force" was made a bugbear to 
frighten women and children ; priests were instructed 
to denounce " rash young men," from their altars ; and 
"Law" — London law, was thrust down the national 
throat. 

Davis saw this, — vainly resisted it, and made head 



against it for a while. He laboured in the Nation moi'« 
zealously than ever; but his intimate comrades per- 
ceived him changed ; and after a short illness he died 
at his mother's house, Baggot street, Dublin, on the 16th 
of September, 1845. 

The Nation lost its strength and its inspiration. The 
circle of friends and comrades, — the " Young Ireland 
party," as they were called, that revolved around this 
central figure, that were kept in their spheres by the 
attraction of his strong nature; taking their literary 
tasks from his hands, — drawing instruction from hia 
varied accomplishments, and courage and zeal from his 
kindly and cheerful converse, — soon fell into confusion, 
alienation, helplessness. Gloom gathered round the 
cause, and Famine wasting the bone and vigour of the 
nation, made all his friends feel, as the confederate Irish 
felt when Owen Roe died of poison — like 

" Sheep withotit a shepherd when snow shut out the sky." 

MacNevin, who idolized him, was cut suddenly from all 
his moorings, and like a rudderless ship drifted and 
whirled, until he died in a mad-house. Of others, it 
would be invidious to trace the career in this place. 
Enough to say, that the most dangerous foe English 
dominion in Ireland has had in our generation, is buried 
in the cemetery of Mount Jerome, in the southern 
suburbs of Dublin. 

Fragmentary and hasty as are the compositions in 
prose or verse, which Davis left behind him, they are 
the best and most authentic exponent of the principlea 
and aspirations of the remnant of his disciples. 



INTRODUCTION 



BY THE EDITOR. 



It is my sincere belief, that no book has ever been pub- 
lished of more immediate and permanent interest to the 
Irish People, than this little, volume of the Poems of 
Thomas Davis. 

The momentary grief of the people for his loss was 
loud and ardent enough. I have heard some touching 
instances of the intensity with which it manifested itself 
in thousands who had never seen his face, or heard his 
voice, — to whom, indeed, his very name and being were 
unknown until the tidings of his death awoke in them 
the vain regret that they had not earlier known and 
honoured the good great man who worked unseen 
among them. 

But, alas I regrets of this description are in their very 
nature transient ; and all ranks of the people have much 
to learn before they can rightly appreciate what a trea- 
sure of hope and energy, of life and love, of greatness 
and glory for himself and them, lies buried in that un- 
timely grave. 



X INTRODUCTION. 

It has been the peculiar destiny of this Nation of So^ 
rows, to lose by unseasonable death, at the very crisis of 
her peril, the only men who were endowed with the 
genius and energy to guide her unharmed through the 
strife. Too seldom have Ireland's champions lived to 
reap the mature fruit of their toil. Too seldom hath 
the calm evening of existence, o'ercanopied by victory, 
and smiled on by such parting twilight as promises a 
brighter morrow, heralded for them that glad repose, 
which they only know who have laboured and seen their 
labour blessed. Tlie insidious angel of Death has pre- 
ferred to take our chieftains unprepared in their noon 
of manhood, — too often before that noon arrived, stab- 
bing them stealthily in their tents, as they donned their 
armour, at the dawn of some great day, or mused upon 
the event of that encounter, which they had bent 3very 
energy to meet, and yet were doomed never to see. 

Long centuries hath the hand of God, for inscrutable 
causes, been very heavy on Ireland ; and this alacri< y of 
Death is the fetter-key of his wrath. May this last 
offering of our first-born propitiate him, and may the 
kingly souls whom hereafter He may send among ue to 
rule and guide our people no more be prematurely' sum- 
moned away, in the very dawn of their glory, with their 
hopes unrealized, and their mission unfulfilled. 

Fortunately, Davis was not a statesman and political 
leader merely, but a thinker and a writer too, — mo^e 
than that, a genuine poet ; as, I trust, all who peruse 
this little book will acknowledge. True, it is a mere 
garland of blossoms, whose fruit was doomed never to 
ripen ; a reliquary of undeveloped genius, but recerMj 
aAvakened to a consciousness of its own power. 



INTRODUCTION. Xi 



The ambition, the activity, and above all, the over- 
weening confidence of most young men of genius, 
secures for them a spontaneous discipline in those pur- 
suits for which they are specially adapted. Goethe and 
Schiller, Burns and Byron, Wordsworth and Coleridge, 
too young as most of them were, when tliey commenced 
a career of authorship, had written verses for years 
before they became known to the public. Many are the 
recounted instances of precocious poetic power, both in 
those who afterwards became renowned as poets, and 
in men destined to shine in far other pursuits, the first 
exercise of whose intellectual energy has taken this 
direction. Even men who, like Cowper and Alfieri, have 
burst the shell of seclusion at comparatively a late 
period of life, have betrayed in their boyish tastes or 
habits, the peculiar bent of their genius. However 
waywardness or timidity may have retarded the public 
profession of their art, they had yet some forecast of 
their destiny. They knew they had wings, and fluttered 
them, though they had not yet strength to fly. 

The case of Davis is different, and altogether so pecu- 
liar, that it ought not to be passed over in the very 
briefest introduction to his poetical remains. Until 
about three years before his death, as I am assured, he 
had never written a line of poetry. His efforts to 
acquire knowledge, to make himself useful, and to find 
a suitable sphere of action, were incessant; but they 
tried every path, and took every direction but this. The 
warmth of his affections, and his intense enjoyment c< 
the beauties of nature and character, of literature an. 
art, ought early to have marked him out as one destinev. 
to soar and sing, as well as to think and act But th« 



XU INTRODUCTION. 

fact is, that among his youthful cotemporaries, for many 
a long year, he got as little credit for any promise this 
way, as he did for any other remarkable qualities beyond 
extreme good nature, untiring industry, and very varied 
learning. 

Truth to say, much of this early misconception of his 
character was Davis's own fault. He learned much ; 
suffered much, I have no doubt; felt and sympathised 
much ; and hoped and enjoyed abundantly; but he had 
not yet learned to rely on himself. His powers were 
like the nucleus of an embryo star, uncompressed, un- 
purified, flickering and indistinct. He carried about 
with him huge loads of what other men, most of them 
statists and logicians, had thought proper to assert ; but 
what he thought and felt himself, he did not think of 
putting forward. The result was, that during his col- 
lege course, and for some years after, while he was very 
generally liked, he had, unless perhaps with some who 
knew him intimately, but a moderate reputation for high 
ability of any kind. In his twenty-fifth year, as I 
remember — that is, in the spring of 1839 — he first began 
to break out of this. His opinions began to have 
weight, and his character and influence t5 unfold them- 
selves in a variety of ways. In the following year he 
entered political life. But this is not the place to 
rec<5unt the details of his subsequent career. 

The outbreak of his poetical power began in thia 
wise. In the autumn of 1842, taking an active part in 
the establishment of a new popular journal, (the Na 
Hon,) which was intended to advance the cause of 
Nationality by all the aids which literary as well as 
political talent could bring to its advocacy Davk, and 



INTRODUCTION. XIH 

the friends associated with him, found that while their 
corps in other respects was sufficiently complete, they 
had but scanty promise of support in the poetica 
departmeut. The well-known saying of Fletcher of Sal- 
toun,— "Give me the ballads, and let who will make the 
laws,"— had sunk deeply into the minds of some of the 
projectors of the journal : though I am told that Davis 
himself was at first not very solicitous on this point ; so 
little aware was he of his own power in that respect, at 
the moment it was about to break forth. But the Editor 
of the journal bad set his heart on it, having before par- 
tially tried the experiment in a Northern paper. Ulti- 
mately, however, all the founders of the Nation agreed 
in the resolve, that come whence it would, poetry,— real 
living poetry, gushing warm from the heart, and not 
mechanically mimicking obsolete and ungenial forms,— 
was worth a trial, as a fosterer of National feeling, and 
an excitement to National hope. But it came not from 
any outward source; and thereupon Davis and his com- 
panions resolved, in default of other aid, to write th« 
poetry themselves. They did so ; they surprised them 
selves and every body else. The results of that despair- 
ing attempt have since been made known, and applauded 
in every quarter of the globe. The right chord had been 
struck, and the consequent stimulus to Irish literature 
has been, and is, incalculable. 

The rapidity and thrilling power, with which, from the 
time that he got full access to the public ear, Davis 
developed his energies as statesman, political writer, 
and poet, has been well described elsewhere. It excited 
the surprise and admiration even of those who knew 
him best^ and won the respect of numbers, who frouo 
2 



Xiy INTRODUCTION. 

political or personal prejudices, had been originally most 
unwilling to admit his worth. So signal a victory ovel 
long-continued neglect and obstinate prejudice as he had 
at length obtained, has never come under my observa- 
tion, and I believe it to be almost unexampled. There 
is no assurance of greatness so unmistakable as this. 
No power is so overwhelming, no energy so untiring, no 
enthusiasm so indomitable, as that which slumbers for 
years, unconscious and unsuspected, until the character 
is completely formed, and then bursts at once into light 
And life, when the time for action is come. 

This was the true guarantee of Davis's greatness, — of 
a genius which was equal to any emergency, which 
would have been constantly placing itself in new aspects, 
overcoming new difficulties, and winning fresh love and 
honour from his countrymen, and from mankind. A 
character so rich in promise, so full of life and energy, 
of love and hope, as his, and at the same time so suited 
for public life, is a rarity in liistory. Had he been spared 
for a few years longer, the world would have known this 
welL As it is, they must partly take it on trust fi'om 
those who knew the man. For none of his writings, 
either in prose or verse, will enable them to know him 
thoroughly. As, indeed, the richer and deeper, and 
more vital and versatile a man's character is, the poorer 
fragment of himself will his writings inevitably be. 

Not but that everything Davis has written, abounds 
in admonition and instruction, for Irishmen of every 
class, and for all in any country who have the sym- 
pathies and affections of men. But from the activity 
of his public life, it was impossible that he could writ* 
with that leisure and deliberate care, which the heart 



' INTRODUCTION. XT 

and intellect require for finished composition. And ac- 
cordingly, none of his works can be taken as an adequate 
expression of his creative power. Had he lived, and been 
enabled to shift a portion of his political burden upon 
other shoulders, I have no doubt but he would have 
more frequently retired into himself, and thus been 
enabled to give the world the purer fruits of his unen- 
cumbered leisure. But the weight of his toil cut him off 
before tliat leisure came. 

If anywhere, it is in this volume, that a key to Da- 
vis's most engaging qualities, and to his inward heart, 
may be found. But there is not room here, and I must 
await some other opportunity of weighing the merits of 
these poems, in relation to their author's character, and 
to the wants of the time and country for which they 
were written. It may, at all events, be better done 
when his prose works also have been given to the public, 
and the elite of the labours of his young statesmanship 
made permanently and universally accessible. For lite- 
rary pre-eminence was not his ambition at all, and even 
usefulness through the channels of literature, but one of 
the many means which he shaped to one great end. 

For these and other reasons, apart from his want of 
leisure, and his early death, his poems above all must 
not be judged without a reference to his aims and hia 
mode of life. I do not believe that since the invention 
of printing, there has been any volume of such sincere 
effect and varied power, produced under similar cir- 
cumstances. The longer portion and by far the best of 
them were written and published in a single year (1844), 
and that the most active of the author's life, during 
which his political labours, in addition to <ionstant writ 



XVI INTRODUCTION. 

ing for the journal with which he was connected, were 
almost as incessant and fatiguing as those of a ministei 
of state. 

In these and in some not dissimilar instances which I 
could recount of others, there seems good reason to hope 
for our country and our age. Novalis used to lament 
bitterly the severance of poetry from philosophy, and 
Burely not without abundant cause ; but with far better 
reason might he have bemoaned the divorce of poetry 
from life and action. i^For in no respect is there a greater 
contrast between these latter formalized ages, and the 
wilder, healthier centuries of the world's antique life. 
Solon was a poet, as well as a statesman and sage. 
Sophocles was not only an unrivalled dramatist, but a 
distinguished soldier, and in youth a miracle of beauty 
and accomplishments,-7-the Sidney as well as the 
Shakspeare of that glorious age. Pericles and Caesar 
were orators, philosophers, soldiers, wits, poets, and 
consummate statesmen, all in one. Descending to a 
later age, entirely different in character and^aims, we 
find Alfred teaching his people as well as ruling them. 
Kichard Coeur-de-lion was hardly less renowned for 
poetry than for courage. Bertrand de Born was warrior 
and patriot, poet and statesman, and it was not found 
that his success in one pursuit was marred or defeated 
by his proficiency in another. Among the Moslem 
cotemporaries of all these men, abundant examples 
might be adduced of such a combination of political 
with poetical power. And recurring to the early 
dwellers in the East, above all to those whom a peculiar 
dispensation set apart from other men, Moses and David 
were poets, as well as prophets and kings. 



INTRODUCTION. Xvft 

For such is the natural condition of health, in nations 
as in men. The mind and the body alike are agile for 
a thousand feats, and equal to a thousand labours. For 
literature is then a part of life, a dweller in the common 
landscape, a presence in sunshine and in shade, in camp 
and festival, before the altar and beside the hearth, — 
and not an intruding reminiscence, an antiquated 
mockery, a ghastly effete excrescence, hiding with its 
bloated bulk the worth of the present hour, and the 
lovely opportunities of unused actual life, that ever lie 
with mute appeal before the dullard man ; and which 
he alone who feels the force of, can enter into the feel- 
ings or appreciate the worth of bye-gone generations 
too. 

It is only the insidious materialism of modern exist- 
ence, that has rent the finest tissues of moral power and 
dwarfed into mechanical routine and huxtering sub- 
serviency, the interchanging faculties of man, making 
literature itself a statute-book, or a gin-shop, instead of 
an overhanging -canopy of the simple and sublime, a 
fostering, embracing atmosphere to man's every thought 
and act. And thus it is that poets and philosophers, — 
that is, men of purer, deeper, more genial and generative 
faculty tlian others, — find all the avenues to power 
barr«d against them by lawyers and diplomatists, and 
are driven to suck their thumbs in corners, when they 
ought, by virtue of the fiercer life and more powerful 
reason that is in them, to be teaching the world by ex- 
ample as well as precept; and not by words alone, but 
by action too, by the communities of peril, and the inter 
change of sympathy and love, to be filling the souls of 
men with hope and resolution, with piety and truth. 
2* 



Xviil INTRODUCTrON. 

Here, at least, in this little book, is a precedent and 
admonition to the honest man-of-letters of whatever 
class or country — that if his feeling for his fellow- 
men — and who will feel for them, if he does not? — 
should lead him into political action, he need not des- 
pond because he is a poet, if only he is, into the bargain, 
a self-reliant man. Davis was a poet, but he waft not 
for that the less practical in public life, nor did the most 
prosaic of his opponents ever object to him, that he was 
the less fitted to advise and govern, because he occa- 
sionally expressed in verse the purer aspirations of his 
soul. 

Pity it is, to be sure, that these aspirations had not 
found a fuller utterance, before the fiat of death had 
hushed to unseasonable rest the throbbings of that large 
heart. Fragments though they be of a most capacious 
and diversified character, they are yet to a wonderful 
degree its unaffected utterance. Like wild flowers 
springing from the mould in the clefts of a giant oak, 
the}'^ relish of the open air, and have looked the sky in 
the face. Doubtless in many ways the impress of the 
poet's spirit, and of the graces of his character, is biit 
the purer for his partial and too late development of its 
loveliest folds. Like the first fragrance of the rose, ere 
its perfume becomes heavy with sweetness ; or as the 
violet smells the sweetest, when hidden by its cherishing 
leaves from the glare of the noonday sun. 

Moreover, the supreme worth of books is as an index 
of character ; as a fragmentary insight into unfathomed 
worth and power. For the man who is not better than 
his books, has ever seemed to me a poor creature. — 
Many there are, no doubt, — men whose names are high 



INTRODUCTION. XlX 

in literature — who fail to produce on their cotempora- 
ries or on those who know their biography, an impres- 
sion adequate to the promise of their writings— and 
some, perhaps, who really have no corresponding in 
ward worth. Allowing for the too ardent expectations 
of their admirers, this indicates ever some lamentable 
deficiency. One cannot help occasionally, in moments 
of ill-humour, suspecting some of these authors to be 
paltry secondhand thieves of other men's thoughts, or 
mimics of other men's energy, and not as all good writ- 
ers ought to be, natural, self-taught, self-directed men. 
And, therefore, in honest writing, above all things, is it 
true, that " well begun, is half done ;" be it but once 
well begun. Goldsmith's lovely nature is as visible, and 
more distinct in the little volume of the Vicar of Wake- 
field, than if he had written a dozen Waverley novels ; 
Rosamund Gray and Undine are a purer offspring of 
their authors' minds, and a more convincing evidence of 
their worth, than any congeries of romances could have 
been. 

And thus, perhaps, after all, the soul of Davis will 
shine from this book, as pure and clear,— though not so 
bright, or comprehensive, or beneficent, — as if he had 
been thirty years writing instead of three, and filled a 
dozen of volumes instead of one. Ah ! as far as writing 
goes, there is enough to make men love him, and guess 
at him, — and what more can the best of readers do with 
the supremest writer, though he lived to the age of 
Sophocles or Goethe. The true loss is of the oak's tim- 
ber, the living tree itself, and not of its acorns or of the 
flowers at its base. The loss of his immediate influence 
on the events of his time, and on the souls of his co- 



XX INTRODUCTION. 

temporaries by guidance and example, — that is the trua 
bereavement : one which possibly many generations to 
come will be suffering from and expiating, consciously 
or unconsciously. So complete an endowment as his is 
a rare phenomenon, and no calamity can be compared 
with its untimely extinction. 

Undoubtedly the circumstances which attended the 
development of Davis's powers, are a striking proof of 
the, latent energy which lies hid among our people, tin- 
wrought and almost unthought of. Not that I entertain 
the opinion, though it is a favourite theory with some 
men, — and one which does not obtain the less accep- 
tance because it flatters human nature, — that there is an 
abundance of great men, ever walking the earth, utterly 
unconscious of their power, and only wanting a sufficient 
stimulus, themselves to know their power, and make all 
men acknowledge it. A theory of life and history, in 
any high sense of greatness, to which I cannot assent: 
for it seems to me the very essence of the great man is, 
that he is, in spite of himself, making ever new acquaint- 
ance with the realities of life. All animate and inani- 
mate nature is in a conspiracy to make him know 
himself, or at least to make others know him, and by 
their love or hate, their fear or reverence, to awaken 
his slumbering might. Destiny lias a thousand electric 
shocks in store for him, to which unearnest men are in- 
sensible ; while his own uuhasting yet unresting sj)irit 
is ever fathoming new depths in the infinities of thought, 
and suffering, and love. For, as the wisest of the an- 
cients told the clods who condemned him, — the great 
man is not born of a stock or a stone; but nature's 
wants are strong in him, and the ties of heart and horn* 



INTRODUCTION. xxi 

are as dear, or dearer to him than to any. And home 
ie the great teacher, in childhood by its joys, in manhood 
by its sorrows, in age by its ebbing regrets. 

No matter, then, whether thought or passion have the 
mastery in the great man's nature, no matter whether 
action or reception preponderates in his life, if he be 
truly great, and live through man's estate, he will in 
some way be recognised. Strange it were indeed, if 
every other element in nature — the paltriest grain of 
sand, or the most fleeting wave of light — were perjte- 
tual and unlimited in its influence, and the mightiest 
power of all, the plenitude of spiritual life, could remain 
unfelt by kindred spirit, for the natural life of man. 
True, the great man will often shun society, and court 
obscui'ity and solitude : but let him withdraw into him- 
self ever so much, his soul will only expand the more 
with thought and passion. The mystery of lif« will be 
the greater to him, the more time he has to study it ; 
the loveliness ol nature will be the sweeter to him, the 
less his converse with her is disturbed by the thought- 
less comment of the worldly or the vain. Let him re- 
tire into utter solitude, and even if he were not great, 
that solitude, — if nature whispers to him, and he listens 
to her, — would go near to make him so : as Selkirk, 
when after his four years' solitude he trod again the 
streets of London, looked for a while a king, and talked 
like a philosopher. For a while, — since, as Richard 
Steele ably tells the story, in six months or so, the 
royalty had faded from his face, and he had grown 
again, what he was at first, a sturdy but common-place 
sailor. 

But nature herself haunts incessantl}^ the really grea^ 



XXU INTRODUCTION. 

man, and nothing can vulgarize him. And if it wer€ 
only on that account alone, whether tested by action, oi 
untested by it, the great man is sure of recognition, if 
allowed to live out his life. If he act, his acts will show 
him ; and even if he do not act, his thoughts or his 
goodness will betray him. "Hide the thoughts of such 
a man," says a sage of our time: "hide the sky and 
stars, hide the sun and moon 1 Thought is all light, 
and publishes itself to the universe. It will speak, 
though you were dumb, by some miraculous organ. It 
will flow out of your actions, your manners and your 
face. It will bring your friendships, and impledge you 
to nature and truth, by the love and expectations of 
generous minds." 

And yet there is in many of the best and greatest men, 
a tardiness of growth, which either beneficially shrouds 
their budding graces from the handling of impatient 
friends ; or at least sets at naught that impatience, and 
huffs the scrutiny of the interested watcher by perpe- 
tual new growth of mere leaves, instead of the flowers 
and fruit he craves. Even where the natural tendency 
is to active life, such men will for years evince an awk- 
wardness, a shiftlessness, and indirectness of aim, and 
unsteadiness of pursuit, — on the whole a hulking, slob- 
bery ponderousaess, as of an overgrown school-boy, — 
which will make men tardy in acknowledging their 
worth and power, when at length, after abomdant way- 
wardness, their discipline is complete, their character 
formed, and their strength matured. 

As to the causes of all this, I dare not enter on them 
now. They all centre in a good-natured simplicity, an 
infantine acquiescence and credulity, which makes suck 



INTRODUCTION. XXIU 

slow growing men content to be hewers of wood and 
drawei-s of water for half a life-time, until their patience 
is exhausted ; or until the trumpet call of duty, ever on 
the watch to startle them, rouses them into life ; then at 
length they commence their labours and assert their 
rights. In their experiences likewise, they are some- 
times tardy, and as some ancient wrote, and Goethe 
was fond of quoting.: — 

'O //^ Sapsis avOpoy-iTos oi iraiScverat. 

In some such frame may the history of Davis's mind 
be set. 

But though great men, wise men, kingly men, cannot 
but be few, good men and true need not be so scarce as 
they are, — men, I mean, true to their own convictions, 
and prompt in their country's need, — not greedy of dis- 
tinction, but knowing well the hived sweetness thai 
abides in an unnoticed life, — and yet not shrinking from 
responsibility, or avoiding danger, when the hour of trial 
comes. It is such men that this country needs, and not 
flaunting histrionists, or empty platform patriots. She 
wants men wiio can and wiU work as well as talk. Men 
glad to live and yet prepared to die. For Ireland is 
approaching her majority, and what she wants is men. 

And thus is it, above all, in the manliness of this book, 
and of the author's character, that the germ abides of 
hope for the country, and of consolation for his loss. 
If such worth could grow up, and such success be won, 
amid all the treacherous influences that sap the strength 
of Jreland, what have we not a right to hope for? 
What may not be yet the glory and gladness of that 
distant time, when our National Genius shall at length 



XXIV INTRODUCTION. 

stand regenerated and disenthralled from the shackles 
of foreign thought, and the contagion of foreign example , 
when beneath his own skies with his own hills around, 
and the hearts of a whole people echoing his passionate 
words, he shall feel therein a content and exultation' 
which mere cosmopolitan greatness is doomed never to 
know ; when satisfied with ministering to the wants of 
the land that bore him, and having few or no aifections 
beyond the blue waves which are its eternal boundary, 
he shall find his only and most ample reward in the 
gratitude and love of our own fervent people ? 

All! some few short years ago, who could look for 
such a result with confidence ? Though some there 
were, whom strong affections made strong in hope, that 
never despaired, in the gloomiest season. Times are 
altered since then. The eyes of our people are opened, 
and their hearts are changed. A swift and a surprisiug, 
and yet an easy change, for a nation perisheth not ex- 
cept by its own sentence. Blind though it be, it needs 
but be led towards the East and turned to the rising 
Bun, Tiresias-like, to recover its sight. 

"Well, until a spirit of Nationality had arisen in the 
land, and spread from sea to sea, and was not only 
talked of but became an abiding principle in our lives, 
how could we hope to have a manly book, or a manly 
being among us ? Or was it that the man and the feel- 
ing both arose together, like a high-tide with a storm at 
its back ? What else but the fostering breath of Nation- 
ality could make that genius strong, which, without 
such sympathy and cherishing, must necessarily grow 
up a weakling ? For sympathy given and received, ia 
the life and soul of genius: without such support it 



INTRODUCTION. XXV 

crawls along a crippled abortion, when it ought to walk 
abroad a giant and champion of men. Until we had 
proved ourselves worthy of having great men among u?,; 
until wo had shewed respect unto our dead, and taken 
.the memory of our forgotten brave unto our hearts 
again, and bid them live there for ever ; until we dared 
to love and honour our own, as they deserved to be 
loved and honoured, what had we, the Irish People, a 
right to expect? what goodness or greatness could we 
presume to claim? Until all sects and parties had at 
least begun to hold out a helping hand to each other, 
and to bind their native land with one bond of labour 
and love, what grace could even Nature's bounty bestow 
on such a graceless people ? 

Time was, as many alive may well remember — and I 
have been often pained by the feeling — when, if the 
report of any new genius arose among us, we had to 
make up our minds to find much of its brightest pro- 
mise blighted in the early bud, or stunted in maturer 
growth, by the mingled chill of exotic culture and of 
home neglect. In those days we could never approach 
a product of the National Mind, without a cold fear at 
our hearts, that we should find it unworthy of the 
Nation; that we should find on it the stamp of the 
slave, or the slimy trail of the stranger. And even as 
we gazed with fondness and admiration on those, who in 
our evil days had yet achieved something for us, and 
given us something to be proud of, we still expected to 
meet in them some failure, some inconsistency, some 
sad, some lamentable defect, and to see the strong man 
totter like a weakling and a slave. 

And otherwise it could not be, in our abandonment 



XXVI INTRODUCTION. 

both of our rights and hope to recover them. (]!ould 
the orphaned heart of genius be glad like his who had a 
parent^ — a mother-country, a father-land ? €ould he 
who had no country, or doubted what country he be- 
longed to, and knew not anything that he should care 
to live or die for ; or if he dreamed of such an objectj 
had chosen sect instead of country ? — Could he be strong 
in filial might, and firm in manly rectitude, and bold in 
genial daring, — or can he yet be so among us, — like him 
upon whose childish thought no party spite hath shed 
its venom, the milk of whose untried affections sectarian 
hate hath curdled not ; but the greatness and glory of 
his country illumined for him the morning horizon of 
life ; while home, and love, and freedom, the sovereign 
graces of earth, have blended in one religion, and 
strengthened his heart with a mighty strength, and 
chastening his spirit for ever, have made the memory of 
his young days, indeed ineffably divine? Can he love 
home as home should be loved, who loves not his country 
tooH Can he love country right, who hath no home? 
Can he love home or country perfectly, to whose aching 
heart the balm of love hath not been timely given? 
Believe it not, ye sons of men ! — as he ought, he cannot. 
As star poiseth star in the wilderness of the illimitable 
heavens, even so the charities of life sustain each other, 
and centre in the spirit of God, and bind all created 
beings beneath the shelter of his love. 

Bnt enough, — a better and a brighter day is dawning 
and the 

" flecked darkness like a drunkard reels 

" From forth day's pathway, made by Freedom's wheeli." 



INTRODUCTION. XXvii 

And our lost Thomas Davis was our Phosphorus, or 
bringer of light! 

"Justice and Truth their winged child have found I" 

But let us not be incautiously hopeful Let as re- 
member that the pestilential influences, which Davis, 
like all of us, had to struggle with and overcome, are 
still rife among us. Let us not deceive ourselves. The 
miseries of our country for seven centuries have had 
foreign causes; but there have been, ever from the be- 
ginning of that misery, domestic causes too. We were 
divided, and did hate each other. We are divided and 
do hate each other ; and therefore we cannot stand. It 
is in many respects, too, an ill time, in which we are to 
unlearn these errors, and abjure this vice, if ever we 
abjure it. But He who sent the disease will send the 
healing too. Ah, why were we not reconciled among 
ourselves, in earlier, in better times than these? The 
fruit of our reconciliation then would have been greater 
far than ever it can be now. Our native laws, and in- 
stitutions, and language, were not then withered away. 
The trees which our forefathers planted, had yet firm 
root in the land. But now, in the old age of our Na- 
tion, we have had to begin life again, and with delibe- 
rate effort, and the straining of every nerve, to repeat 
those toils, which the gladness of youth made light for 
our fathers long ages ago. And this autumn blossom of 
our glory may go, too, as tribute to swell the renown of 
those who so long enslaved us. Yet it is the best we 
can do. There are millions of sad hearts in our land. 
Are thej' to be so for ever? There are millions who 
have not food. Are they never to be filled ? Happy are 



XXVlii INTROi/UCTION. 

you, after all, O youth of Ireland 1 fortunate if you but 
knew it, for if ever a generation had, in hope, something 
worth living for, and in sacrifice, something worth dying 
for, that blessed lot is yours. 

And here, youth of Ireland ! in this little book is a 
Psalter of Nationality, in which every aspiration of 
your hearts will meet its due response, — your every aim 
and eflfort, encouragement arid sympathy, and wisest 
admonition. High were the hopes of our young poet 
patriot, and unforeseen by him and all the stroke of fate 
which was to call him untimely away. The greater 
need that you should discipline and strengthen your 
souls, and bring the aid of many, to what the genius of 
him who is gone might have contributed more than all. 
Hive up strength and knowledge. Be straightforward, 
and sincere, and resolute, and undismayed as he was ; 
and God will yet reward your truth and love, and bless 
the land whose sons you boast yourselves to be. 

1 W. 

20th April, 1846. 



TO THE MEMORY OF DAVIS. 



QLo t\)c Mcmot^ of ®l)oma0 iBauiB. 



BY JOHN FISHER MURRAY. 



When on the field where freedom bled, 

I press the ashes of the brave, 
Marvelling that jnan should ever dread 

Thus to wipe out the name of slave ; 
No deep-drawn sigh escapes my breast-— 

No woman's drops my eyes distain, 
I weep not gallant hearts at rest, 

I but deplore they died in vain. 



When I the sacred spot behold, 

For aye remembered and renowned, 
Where dauntless hearts and arms as bold. 

Strewed tyrants and their slaves around, 
High hopes exulting fire my breast — 

High notes triumphant swell my straini 
Joy to the brave ! in victory blest — 

Joy ! joy ! they perished not in vain. 



But when thy ever mournful voice, 

My country calls me to deplore 
The champion of thy youthful choice, 

Honoured, revered, but seen no more ; 
Heavy and quick my sorrows fall 

For him who strove, with might and main, 
To leave a lesson for us all, 
• How we might live — nor live in vain. 
3* 



XXX TO THE MEMORY OF DAVIS. 

If, moulded of earth's common clay, 

Thou hadst to sordid hearts stooped duwD^ 
Thy glorious talent flung away, 

Or sold for price thy great renown ; 
In some poor pettifogging place 

Slothful, inglorious, thou had'st lain, 
Herding amid the unhonoured race, 

Who doze, and dream, and die in vain. 



A spark of his celestial fire. 

The God of freemen struck from thee ; 
Made thee to spurn each low desire. 

Nor bend the uncompromising knee ; 
Made thee to vow thy life, to rive 

With ceaseless tug th' oppressor's chaia 
With lyre, with pen, with sword to strive 

For thy dear land — nor strive in vain. 



How hapless is our country's fate, — 

If heaven in pity to us send 
Like thee, one glorious, good and great— 

To guide, instruct us, and amen'l ; 
How soon thy honoured lile is o'er — 

Soon Heaven demandeth thee again ; 
We grope on darkling as before. 

And fear lest thou hast died in vain. 



In vain, — no, never ? O'er thy grave, 

Thy spirit dwelleth in the air ; 
Thy passionate love, thy purpose brav*. 

Thy hope assured, thy promise fair. 
Generous and wise, farewell! — Forego 

Tears for the glorious dead and gone 
His tears, if tears are his, still flow 

For slaves and cowards living on. 



PART I. 

Jiatinnal Mkh ntiii $mp. 



'*1National Poetry is the very flowering of the soul, the greatest 
evidence of its health, the greatest excellence of its beauty. Its me- 
lody is balsam to the senses. It is the playfellow of Childhood, ripens 
into the companion of Manhood, consoles Age. It presents the most 
dramatic events, the largest characters, the most impressive scenes, 
and the deepest passions, in the language most familiar to us. It 
magnifies and ennobles onr hearts, our intellects, our country, and 
our countrymen, — binds us to the land by its condensed and gem-like 
history ; to the future by example and by aspiration. It solaces us 
in travel, fires us in action, prompts our invention, sheds a grace 
beyond the power of luxury round our homes, is the recognized envoy 
of our niiuds among all mankind, and to all time." — Davis's Essays. 



TIPPERARY. . 

Air — Original.* 
I. 
Let Britain boast her British hosts, 

About them all right little care we j 
Not British seas nor British coasts 
Can match the man of Tipperary ! 

• Vide "Spirit of the Nation," 4to. p. 84. 



33 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

U. 

Tall is his form, his heart is warm, 
His spirit light as any fairy — 

His wrath is fearful as the storm 

That sweeps The Hills of Tipperary ! 



Lead him to fight for native land, 
His is no courage cold and wary ; 

The troops live not on earth would stand 
The headlong Charge of Tipperary ! 

IV. 

Yet meet him in his cabin rude, 
Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary, 

You'd swear they knew no other moo«l 
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary ! 



You're free to share his scanty meal. 
His plighted word he'll never vary— ^ 

In vain they tried with gold and steel 
To shake The Faith of Tipperary! 



Soft is his cailirHs sunny eye, 
Her mien is mild, her step is airy, 

Her heart is fond, her soul is high — 
Oh! she's The Pride of Tipperary! 



TIPPERART. 33- 

VII. 



Let Britain brag her motley rag ; 

We'll lift The Green more proud and airy ;— 
Be mine the lot to bear that flag, 

And head The Men of Tipperary ! 



vin. 



Though Britain boasts her British hosts, 
About them all right little care we— 

Give us, to guard our native coasts, 
The Matchless Men of Tipperary ! 



THE RIVERS. 

Air — Kathleen G'More. 

I. 

There's a far-famed Black water that runs to Loclt 

Neagh, 
There's a fairer Blackwater that runs to the sea — 
The glory of Ulster, 
The beauty of Munster, 

These twin rivers be. 



34 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

11. 

From the banks of that river Benburb's towers arise ; 
This stream shines as bright as a tear from sweet eyes ; 

This fond as a young bride, 

That with foeman's blood dyed — 
Both dearly we prize. 

, ni. 

Deep sunk in that bed is the sword of Monroe, 
Since, 'twixt it and Donagh, he met Owen Roe, 

And Charlemont's cannon 

Slew many a man on 

These meadows below. 

IV. 

The shrines of Armagh gleam far over yon lea, 
Nor afar is Dungannon that nursed liberty. 

And yonder Red Hugh 

Marshal Bagenal o'erthrew 

On Beal-an-atha-Buidhe.* 



V. 

But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore, 
Ami more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lismore ; 

There the stream, like a maiden 

With love overladen. 

Pants wild on each shore. 

• Vtdgo, Ballanabwee — the mouth of the yellow ford. 



THE RIVERS. 35 

VI. 

Its rocks rise like statues, tall, stately, and fair, [air, 
And the trees, and the flowers, and the mountains, and 

With Wonder's sou! near you, 

To share with, and cheer you, 
Make Paradise there. 

VII. 

[ would rove by that stream, ere my flag I unrolled ; 
I would fly to these banks my betrothed to enfold— 

The pride of our sire-land, 

The Eden of Ii-eland, 

More precious than gold. 

vm. 

May their borders be free from oppression and blight 
May their daughters and sons ever fondly unite — 

The glory of Ulster, 

The beauty of Munster, 

Our strength and delight. 



GLENGARIFF. 



Air. — O^ Sullivan's March. 
I. 
'1 WiLT»iEERED at eve by Glengariff's sweet water, 
Half in the shade, and half in the moon, 



36 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

And thought of the time when the Sacsanach slaughter 
Reddened the night and darkened the noon ; 

Mo nuar ! mo nuar ! mo nuar !* I said, — 
When I think, in this valley and sky — 
Where true lovers and poets should sigh— 

Of the time w^hen its chieftain O'SuUivan fled, f 



II. 

Then my mind went along with O'Sullivan marching 

Over Musk'ry's moors and Ormond's plain, 
His curachs the waves of the Shannon o'erarching, 

And his pathway mile-marked with the slain : 
Mo nuar ! mo nuar ! mo nuar ! I said, — 

Yet 'twas better far from you to go, 
And to battle with torrent and foe, 
Than linger as slaves where your sweet waters spread 



nt. 

But my fancy burst on, like a clan o'er the border, 

To times that seemed almost at hand, 
WTien grasping her banner, old Erin's Lamh Laidii 

Alone shall rule over the rescued land ; 
O baotho /. O haotho ! O haotho ! X I said, — 

Be our marching as steady and strong, 

And freemen our valleys shall throng. 

When the last of our foemen is vanquished and fled ! 

• " Alas !" t Tide post, page 126 

% " Oh, fine." 



THE west's asleep. 37 

THE WEST'S ASLEEP. 

Am— The Brink »f the White Rocks, 



When all beside a vigil keep, 
The West's asleep, the West's asleep — 
Alas ! and well may Erin weep. 
When Connaught lies in slumber deep. 
There lake and plain smile fair and free, 
'Mid rocks — their guardian chivalry — 
Sing oh ! let man learn liberty 
From crashing wind and lashing sea. 

II. 
That chainless wave and lovely land 
Freedom and Nationhood demand — 
Be sure, the great God never planned, 
For slumbering slaves, a home so grand. 
And, long, a brave and haughty race 
Honoured and sentinelled the place — 
Sing oh ! not even their sons' disgrace 
Can quite destroy their glory's trace. 

ni. 
For often, in O'Connor's van. 
To triumph dashed each Connaught clan— 

• Vide " Spirit of the Nation," 4to p. "^O 
1 



38 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

And fleet as deer the Normans ran 
Through Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan. 
And later times saw deeds as brave ; 
And glory guards Clanriearde's gmve — 
Sing oh ! they died their land to save, 
At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave. 



And if, when all a vigil keep, 

The West's asleep, the West's asleep — 

Alas ! and well may Erin weep. 

That Connaught lies in slumber deep. 

But — hark ! — ^some voice like thunder spake 

" The Wesi''s awake, the West's awake " — 

" Sing oh ! hurra ! let England quake, 

We'll watch till death for Erin's sake !" 



OH ! FOR A STEED. 

Air — Original* 
I. 
Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a blazing scimitar, 
To hunt from beauteous Italy the Austrian's red hussar 
To mock their boasts. 
And strew their hosts. 
And scatter their flags afar. 

• Vide "Spirit of the Nation," 4to p 909 



oh! for a steed. 39 

Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and dear Poland 

gathered around, 
To smite her circle of savage foes, and smash them 
upon the ground ; 

Nor hold my hand 
While, on the land, 
A foreigner foe was found. 

m. 
Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that never 

foiled. 
And a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate valour 
mailed, 

Till " stripes and stars," 
And Russian czars. 
Before the Red Indian quailed. 

IV. 

Oh I for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains of Hin- 
dustan, 
And a hundi-ed thousand cavaliers, to charge like a 
single man, 

Till our shirts were red, 
And the English fled, 
Like a cowardly caravan. 



Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, with the Greeks at 
Marathon, 



40 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

Or a place in the Switzer phalanx, when the Moiat 
men swept on, 

Like a pine-clad hill 
By an earthquake's will 
Hurled the valleys upon. 

VI. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian smote 

down the Dane, 
Or a place beside great Aodh O'Neill, when Bagenal 
the bold was slain. 

Or a waving crest 
And a lance in rest, 
With Bruce upon Bannoch plain. 

VII. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Curragh of 

Kildare, 
And Irish squadrons ready to do, as they are ready to 
dare — 

A hundred yards. 
And Holland's guards 
Drawn up to engage me there. 

VIII. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and any good cause 

at all. 
Or else, if you will, a field on foot, or guarding a 
leaguered wall 

For freedom's right ; 
In flushing fight 
To conquer if then to fall. 



CYMKIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS. 41 

CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS.* 

Air— r/ie March of the Men of Harlech.j 



Once there was a Cymric nation : 
Few its men, but high its station — 
Freedom is the soul's creation, 

Not the work of hands. 
Coward hearts are self-subduing ; 
Fetters last by slaves' renewing— 
Edward's castles are in ruin, 
Still his empire stands. 
Still the Saxon's malice 
Blights our beauteous valleys ; 
Ours the toil, but his the spoil, and his the laws we 

writhe in ; 
Worked like beasts, that Saxon priests may riot in our 
tithing ; 

Saxon speech and Saxon teachers 

Crush our Cymric tongue ! 
Tolls our traffic binding. 
Rents our vitals grinding — 
Bleating sheep, we cower and weep, when, by one bold 

endeavour, 
>We could drive from out our hive the Saxon dronea 
for ever. 

• Vide Appendix. t Welsh air. 

4* 



42 ballads and songs. 

* Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers '* — 
Pass along the word ! 

n. 
We should blush at Arthur's glory — 
Never sing the deeds of Rory — 
Carataeh's renowned story 
Deepens our disgrace. 
By the bloody day of Banchor ! 
By a thousand years of rancour ! 
By the wrongs that in us canker ! 

Up ! ye Cymric race — 
Think of Old Llewellyn,— 
Owen's trumpets swelling : 
Then send out u thunder shout, and every true man 

summon, 
Till the ground shall echo round from Severn to Plin- 
limmon, 

" Saxon foes, and Cymric brothers, 
" Arthur's come again ?" 
Not his bone and sinew, 
But his soul within you. 
Prompt and true to plan and do, and firm as Monmouth 
iron 
For our cause, though crafty laws and charging troops 
environ — 

"Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers ' — 
Pass along the word ! 



A BALLAD OF FREEDOM. 43 



A BALLAD OF FREEDOM. 



The Frenchman sailed in Freedom's name to smite the 

Algerine, 
The strife was short, the crescent sunk, and then his 

guile was seen ; 
For, nestling in the pirate's hold — a fiercer pu-ate far — 
He bade the tribes yield up their flocks, the towns their 

gates unbar. 
Right on he pressed with freemen's hands to subjugate 

the free, 
The Berber in old Atlas glens, the Moor in Titteri ; 
And wider has his razzias spread, liis cruel conquests 

broader, 
But God sent down, to face his frown, the gallant 

Abdel-Kader — 
The faithful Abdel-Kader ! unconquered Abdel-Kader ! 
Like falling rock, 
Or fierce siroc — 
No savage or marauder — 
Son of a slave ! 
First of the brave ! 
Hurrah for Abdel-Kader !* 



• This name is pronounced Cawder. The French say that their 
g^reat foe was a slave's son. Be it so — he has a hero's and freemin'i 
he^rt. " Hurrah for Abdel-Kader '."—Author's Note 



44 BALLADS AND SONGS. 



Tho Englishman, for long, long years, had ravaged 

Ganges' side — 
A dealer first, intiiguer next, he conquered far And 

wide. 
Till, hurried on by avarice, and thirst of endless rule, 
His sepoys pierced to Candahar, his flag waved in 

Cabul ; 
But still within the conquered land was one uncon- 

quered man. 
The fierce Pushtani* lion, the fiery Akhbar Khan — 
He slew the sepoys on the snow, till Scindh's f full 

flood they swam it 
Right rapidly, content to flee the son of Dost Moham- 
med, 
The son of Dost Mohammed, and brave old D- at 
Mohammed — 

Oh ! long may they 
Their mountains sway, 
Akhbar and Dost Mohammed ! 
Long live the Dost ! 
Who Britain crost. 
Hurrah for Dost Mohammed J 



• This is the name by which the Affghans call themselves. Affgbar 
is a Persian name (see Elphinstone's delightful book on Cabul).-- 
Author's Note. 

t The real name of the Indus, which is a Latinized word. — Au 
thor's Notk. 



THE BALLAD OF FREEDOM. 43 



The Russian, lord of million serfs, and nobles serflier 
still. 

Indignant saw Circassia's sons bear up against his will ; 

With fiery ships he lines their coast, his armies cross 
their streams — 

He builds a hundred fortresses — his conquests done, 
he deems. 

But steady rifles — rushing steeds — a crowd of name- 
less chiefs — 

The plow is o'er his arsenals ! — his fleet is on the reefs \ 

The maidens of Kabyntica are clad in Moscow dresses — 

His slavish herd, how dared they beard the mountain- 
bred Cherkesses ! 
The lightening Cherkesses ! — ^the thundering Cherk- 



May Elburz top 

In Azof drop, 
Ere Cossacks beat Cherkesses ! 

The fountain head 

Whence Europe spread — 
Hurra ! for the tall Cherkesses !* 



Cherkesses or Abdyes is the right name of the, so-called, Circas 
wans, Kabyntica is a town in the heart of the Caucasus, of which 
Mount Elburz is the summit. Blumenbach, and other physiologists 
•ssert that the finer European races descend from a Circassian stock.— 
Author's Note. 



46 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

IV. 

But Russia preys on Poland's fields, where Sobiesk' 

reigned, 
And Austria on Italy — the Roman eagle chained — 
Bohemia, Servia, Hungary, within her clutches, gasp ; 
And Ireland struggles gallantly in England's loosening 

grasp. 
Oh I would all these their strength unite, or battle on 

alone, 
Like Moor, Pushtani, and Cherkess, they soon would 

have their own. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! it can't be far, when from the Scindh 

to Shannon 
Shall gleam a line of freemen's flags begirt by freemen's 

cannon ! 
The coming day of Freedom — the fkshing flags t 
Freedom ! ^ 

The victor glaive — 
The mottoes brave, 
May we be there to read them I 
That glorious noon, 
God send it soon — 
Hurrah for human Freedom I 



THE IRISH HURRAH. 4l 

THE IRISH HURRAH. 

Air — Nach m-baineann sin do. 



Have you hearkened the eagle scream over the sea ? 
Have you hearkened the breaker beat under your lee ? 
A something between the wild waves, in their play, 
And the kingly bird's scream, is The Irish Hurrah. 



How it rings on the rampart when Saxons assail- 
How it leaps on the level, and crosses the vale. 
Till the talk of the cataract faints on its way. 
And the echo's voice cracks with The Irish Hurrah. 

m. 

How it sweeps o'er the mountain when hounds are on 

scent, 
How it presses the billows when rigging is rent. 
Till the enemy's broadside sinks low in dismay, 
As our boarders go in with The Irish Hurrah. 

' IV. 

Oh ! there's hope in the trumpet and glee in the fife, 
But never such music broke into a strife. 
As when at its bursting the war-clouds give way, 
And there's cold steel along with The Irish Hurrah. 



48 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

V. 

What joy for a death-bed, your banner above, 
And round you the pressure of patriot love, 
As you're lifted to gaze on the breaking array 
Of the Saxon reserve at The Irish Hurrah 



A SONG FOR THE IRISH MILITIA 

Am — The Peacock. 

I. 
Tit£ tribune's tongue and poet's pen 
May Ijow the seed in prostrate men ; 
Bat ^tis the soldier's sword alone 
Can rt.ap the crop so bravely sown ! 
No more I'll sing nor idly pine. 
But tram my soul to lead a line — 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldiei *s death, so Ireland's free ! 

II. 
No foe v/ould fear your thunder words 
If 'twere not for our light'ning swords— 
If tyrants yield when millions pray, 
'Tis lest they link in war array ; 



A SONG FOR THE IRISH MILITIA. 49 

Nor peace itself is safe, but when 
The sword is sheathed by fighting men — 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! 



The rifle brown and sabre bright 
Can freely speak and nobly write — 
What prophets preached the truth so well 
As HoFER, BrAn, Bruce, and Tell ? 
God guard the creed these heroes taught, — 
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply boughtj 
I A soldier's life's the life for me — 
I A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! 

IV. 

Then, welcome be the bivouac, 
The hardy stand, and fierce attack, 
Where pikes will tame their carbineers, 
And rifles thin their bay'neteers. 
And every field the island through 
Will show " what Irishmen can do 1" 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! 



Yet, 'tis not strength, and 'tis not steel 
Alone can make the English reel ; 
But wisdom, working day by day, 
Till comes the time for passion's sway — 
5 



50 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

The patient dint, and powder shock. 
Can blast an empire like a rock. 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldier s death, so Ireland's free ! 

VI. 

The tribune's tongue and poet's pen 
May sow the seed in slavish men ; 
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone 
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown. 
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pme, 
But train my soul to lead a line — 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free! 



OUR OWN AGAIN. 

'Air — Original.* 

I. 
Let the coward shrink aside, 

We'll have our own again ; 
Let the brawling slave deride. 

Here's for our own again — 

• ride " Spirit cf the Nation,' 4to.p. 308 



OUR OWN AGAIN. 

Let the tyrant bribe and lie, 
March, threaten, fortify, 
Loose his lawyer and his spy. 

Yet we'll have ouj own again. 
Let him soothe in silken tone. 
Scold from a foreign throne ; 
Let him come with bugles blown, 

We shall have our own again. 
Let us to our purpose bide. 

We'll have our own again — 
Let the game be fairly tried. 

We'll have our own again. 

n. 
Send the cry throughout the land, 

"Who's for our own again 1" 
Summon all men to our band, — 

Why not our own again? 
Rich, and poor, and old, and young, 
Sharp sword, and fiery tongue — 
Soul and sinew firmly strung, 

All to get our own again. 
Brothers thrive by brotherhood — 
Trees in a stormy wood — 
Riches come ll'om Nationhood — 

Sha'n't we have our own again ? 
Munster's woe is Ulster's bane ! 

Join for our own again — 
Tyrants rob as well as reign, — 
We'll have our own again. 



51 



62 BALLADS AND SONGS. 



Oft oiir fathers' hearts it stirred, 

" Rise for our own again !" 
Often passed th^signal word, 

" Strike for our own again !" 
Rudely, rashly, and untaught. 
Uprose they, ere they ought. 
Failing, though they nobly fought, 

Dying for their own again. 
Mind will rule and muscle yield, 
In senate, ship, and field — 
When we've skill our strength to wield 

Let us take our own again. 
By the slave his chain is wrought, — 

Strive for our own again. 
Thunder is less strong than thought, — 

We'll have our own again. 



Calm as granite to our foes. 
Stand for our own again ; 

Till his wrath to madness grows, 
Firm for our own again. 

Bravely hope, and wisely wait. 

Toil, join, and educate ; 

Man is master of his fate ; 

We'll enjoy our own again. 

With a keen constrained thirst — 

Powder's calm ere it burst — 



CELTS AiND SAXONS, 53 

Making ready for the worst, 

So we'll get our own again. 
Let us to our purpose bide, 

We'll have our own again. 
God is on the righteous side, 

We'll have our own again. 



CELTS AND SAXONS.* 



We hate the Saxon and the Dane, 

We hate the Norman men — 
We cursed their greed for blood and gain, 

We curse them now again. 
Yet start not, Irish born man, 

If you're to Ireland true, 
We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan — 

We have no curse for you. 

II. 
We have no curse for you or your's, 

But Friendship's ready grasp. 
And Faith to stand by you and your's 

Unto our latest gasp — 

* Written in reply to some very beautiful verses printed in th« 
Evening Mail, deprecating and defying the assumed hostility of the 
Irish felts to the Irish Saxons. —Author's Note. 



54 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

To stand by you against all foes, 
Howe'er, or whence they come, 

With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows. 
From England, France, or Rome. 

IIL 

What matter that at different shrines 

We pray unto one God — 
What matter that at different times 

Our fathers won this sod — 
In fortune and in name we're bound 

By stronger links than steel ; 
And neither can be safe nor sound 

But in the other's weal. 

IV. 

As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand 

Long drifting down the Nile, 
Built up old Egypt's fertile land 

For many a hundred mile ; 
So Pagan clans to Ireland came. 

And clans of Christendom, 
Yet joined their wisdom and their fame 

To build a nation from. 

V. 

Here came the brown Phoeniciaii, 
The man of trade and toil — 

Here came the proud Milesian, 
Ahungering for spoil ; 



CELTS AND SAXONS. 55 



And the Firbolg and the Cymry, 
And the hard, enduring Dane, 

And the iron Lords of Normandy, 
With the Saxons in their train. 



And oh ! it were a gallant deed 

To show before mankind, 
How every race and every creed 

Might be by love combined- 
Might be combined, yet not forget 

The fountain whence they rose, 
As, filled by many a rivulet 

The stately Shannon flows. 

VIJ, 

Nor would we wreak our ancient feud 

On Belgian or on Dane, 
Nor visit in a hostile mood 

The hearths of Gaul or Spain ; 
But long as on our country lies 

The Anglo-Norman yoke. 
Their tyranny we'll signalize. 

And God's revenge invoke. 

VIII. 

We do not hate, we never cursed. 
Nor spoke a foeman's word 

Against a man in Ireland nursed, 
Howe'cr wc thought he erred ; 



56 BALLADS AND ^ONGS. 

So start not, Irish born man, 

If you're to Ireland true. 
We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan, 

We've hearts and hands for you. 



ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY THE 
DAY. 

Air — The Protestant Boys. 

I. 

. Ireland ! rejoice, and England ! deplore — 
Faction and feud are passing away. 
'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar, 
" Orange and Green will carry the day." 

Orange ! Orange ! 

Green and Orange ! 
Pitted together in many a frp,y — 

Lions in fight ! 

And linked in their might. 
Orange and Green will carry the day. 

Orange ! Orange ! 

Green and Orange ! 
Wave together o'er mountain and bay. 

Orange and Green ! 

Our King and our Queen ! 
"Orange and Green will carry the day I" 



ORANGE AND GREEN. 67 

n. 

Rusty tne swords our fathers unsheathed — 

William and James are turned to clay — 
Long- did we till the wrath they bequeathed ; 
Red was the crop, and bitter the pay ! 

Freedom fled us ! 

Knaves misled us ! 
Under the feet of the foemen we lay — 

Riches and strength 

We'll win them at length, 
For Orange and Green will carry the day ! 

Landlords fooled us ; 

England ruled us, 
Hounding our passions to make us their prey 

But, in their spite, 

The Irish Unite, 
And Orange and Green will carry the day '. 



III. 

Fruitful our soil where honest men starve; 

Empty the mart, and shipless the bay ; 
Out of our want the Oligarchs carve ; 
Foreigners fatten on our decay ! 

Disunited, 

Therefore blighted. 
Ruined and rent by the Englishman's sway 

Party and creed 

For once have agreed — 
Orange and Green wi'! carry the day! 



68 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

Boyne's old water, 

Red with slaughter ! 
Now is as pure as an infant at play ; 

So, in our souls. 

Its history rolls, 
And Orange and Green will cai-ry the day ! 



English deceit can rule us no naore, 

Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray- 
Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore, 
" Orange and Green must carry the day !" 

Orange I Orange! 

Bless the Orange ! 
Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay 

When, from the North, 

Burst the cry forth, 
" Orange and Green will carry the day ;" 

No surrender! 

No Pretender 
Never to falter and never betray — 

With an Amen, 

We swear it again. 
Orange and Green shall carry the day. 



xART 11. 

National Inngs ml Mkh, 



" The greatest achievement of the Irish people is their music. I 
tells their history, climate, and character ; but it too much loves t« 
weep. Let us, when so many of our chains have been broken,— 
while our strength is great, and our hopes high, — cultivate its boldei 
strains— its raging and rejoicing ; or if we weep, let it be like men 
whose eyes are lifted, though their tears fall. 

" Music is the first faculty of the Irish ; and scarcely anything has 
such pawer for good over them. The use of this faculty and thi» 
power, publicly and constantly, to keep up their spirits, refine theii 
tastes, warm their courage, increase their union, and renew their 
zeal,— is the duty of every patriot."— Davis's Essays 



THE LOST PATH. 

Air — Grddh mo chroide 

r. 

Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my ;;omfort be, 

All comfort else has flown ; 
For every hope was false to me 

And here I am, alone 



60 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

What thoughts were mine in early youth I 
^ -— Like some old Irish song, 

Brimful of love, and life, and truth, 
My spirit gushed along. 



• 



II. 
I hoped to right my native isle, 

I hoped a soldier's fame, 
I hoped to rest in woman's smile, 

And win a minstrel's name. 
Oh ! little have I served my land. 

No laurels press my brow, 
I have no woman's heart or hand, 

Nor minstrel honours now. 



But fancy has a magic power. 

It brings me wreath and crown. 
And woman's love, the self-same hour 

It smites oppression down. 
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, 

I have no joy beside ; 
Oh ! throng around, and be to me 

Power, country, fame, and bride. 



LOVE S LONGINGS. 61 



LOVE'S LONGINGS. 



To the conqueror his crowning, 

First freedom to the slave 
And air unto the drovv'ning, 

Sunk in the ocean's v^^ave — 
And succour to the fiiithful, 

Who fight their flag above, 
Are sv^^eet, but far less gi-ateful 

Than were my lady's love. 



I know I am not worthy 

Of one so young and bright ; 
And yet I would do for tiiee 

Far more than others might ; 
1 cannot give you pomp or gold, 

If you should be my wife, 
But I can give you love untold. 

And true in death or life. 



Methinks that there are passions 
Within that heaving breast 

To scorn their heartless fashion. 
And wed whom you love best. 
6 



BALLADS AND SONGS. 

Methinks you would be prouder 
• As the struggling patriot's bride, 
Than if rank your home should crowd, oi 
Cold riches round you glide. 

rv. 
Oh ! the watcher longs for morning, 

And the infant cries for light. 
And the saint for heaven's warning. 

And the vanquished pray for might ; 
But their prayer, when lowest kneeling, 

And their suppliance most true. 
Are cold to the appealing 

Of this longing heart to you . 



HOPE DEFERRED. 

Air — Oh! art thou gone, my Mary dear? 

I. 
'Tis long since we were forced to part, at least it seems 

so to my grief. 
For sorrow wearies us like tune, but ah ! it brings not 

time's relief; 
As in our days of tenderness, before me still she seems 

to glide; 
And, though my arms are wide as then, yet die will 

not abide. 



HOPE DEFERRED. 63 

The day-light and the star-light shine, as if her eyes 

were in their light, 
And, whispering in the panting breeze, her love-songs 

come at lonely night ; 
While, far away with those less dear, she tries to hide 

her grief in vain, 
For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her to give 

pain. 

n. 
I know she never spoke her love, she never breathed a 

single vow, 
And yet I'm sure she loved me then, and still doats on 

me now ; 
For when we met, her eyes grew glad, and heavy when 

I left her side. 
And oft she said she'd be most happy as a poor man's 

bride ; 
I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it ready by 

the spring ; 
The spring is past — what season now my girl unto 

our home will bring ? 
I'm sick and weary, very weary — watching, morning, 

night, and noon ; 
How long you're coming — I am iying — will you not 

come soon '^ 



64 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

EIBHLIN A RUIN. 

Air — Eibhlin a ruin. 

I. 
When I am far away, 

Eibhlin a ruin^ 
Be gayest of the gay, 

Eibhlin a ruin. 
Too dear your happiness, 
For rae to wish it less — 
Love has no selfishness, 

Eibhlin a ruin. 



And it must be our pride, 

Eibhlin a ruin. 
Our trusting hearts to hide, 

Eibhlin a ruin. 
They wish our love to blight, 
We'll wait for Fortune's light, 
The flowers close up at night, 

Eiohlin a ruin. 

HL 

And when we meet alone, 

Eibhlin a ruin, 
Upon my bosom thrown, 

Eibhlin a ruin ; 



THE BANKS OF TH£ L^^i:. S5 

That hour, with light bedecked, 
Shall cheer us and direct, 
A beacon to the wrecked, 
Eibhlin a ruin. 

IV. 

Fortune, thus sought, will come, 

Eibhlin a ruin, 
We'll win a happy home, 

Eibhlin a ruin ; 
And, as it slowly rose, 
'Twill tranquilly repose, 
A rock 'mid melting snows, 

Eibhlin a ruin. 



THE BANKS OF THE LEE. 

Air — A Trip to the Cottage. 

I. 
Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, 
And love in a cottage for Mary and me ; 
There's not in the land a lovelier tide. 
And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my bride. 
She's modest and meek. 
There's a down on her cheek, 
And her skin is as sleek 
As a butterfly's wing — 
6+ 



66 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

Then her step would scarce show 

On the fresh-fallen snow, 

And her whisper is low, 
But as clear as the spring-. 
Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, 
And love in a cottage for Mary and me, 
I know not how love is happy elsewhere, 
I know not how any but lovers are there ! 

IL 

Oh ! so green is the grass, so c.ear is the stream, 
So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam. 
That beauty should ne'er to other lands roam, 
But make on the banks of the river its home 
When dripping with dew. 
The roses peep through, 
'Tis to look in at you 

They are growing so fast ; 
While the scent of the flowers 
Must be hoarded for hours, 
'Tis poured in such showers 
When my Mary goes past. 
Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, 
And love in a cottage for Mary and me — 
Oh, Mary for me — oh, Mary for me ! 
And 'tis little I'd sigh for the banks of the Lee ! 



THE GIRL OF DUNBWY. 67 



THE GIRL OF DUNBWY. 



Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy 
Stepping the mountain statelily — 
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet, 
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet. 

II. 
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies — 
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes ; 
The child of a peasant — yet England's proud Queen 
Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien. 

III. 
Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if 
A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff — 
And love, and devotion, and energy speak 
From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek. 

IV. 

But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip, 
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip, 
And her form and her step, like the red-deer's go past — 
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast. 

V. 

I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye. 
And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by , 
The saint of the wayside — she granted my prayer, 
Though we spoke not a word, for her mother vvas there. 



68 BALLADS AND SONGS. 



I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills, 
But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills ; 
And I whisper her softly, "again, love, we'll meet, 
" And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet.'' 



DUTY AND LOVE. 

Am — My lodging is on the cold ground. 

I. 

Oh ! lady, think not that my heart has grown cold. 

If I woo not as once I could woo ; 
Though sorrow has bruised it, and long years have 
rolled, 
It still doats on beauty and you ; 
And were I to yield to its inmost desire 
I would labour by night and by day, 
"^11 1 won you to flee from the home of your sire, 
To live with your love far away. 

TL 

But it is that my country's in bondage, and I 

Have sworn to shatter her chains ! 
By my duty and oath I must do it or lie 

A corse on her desolate plains : 



ANNIE DEAR. 69 

Then, sure, dearest maiden, 'twere sinful to sue, 

And crueller far to win, 
But, should victory smile on my banner, to you 

I shall fly without sorrow or sin. 



ANNIE DEAR. 

Am — Maids in May. 



I. 
Our mountain brooks were rushing 

Annie, dear. 
The Autumn eve was flushing, 

Annie, dear; 
But brighter was your blushing, 
When first, your murmurs hushing, 
I told my love outgushing, 

Annie, dear. 

n. 

Ah ! but our hopes were splendid, 
Annie, dear. 

How sadly they have ended, 

Annie, dear ; 



70 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

The ring betwixt us broken, 
When our vows of love were spoken, 
Of your poor heart was a token, 
Annie, dear 

in. 
The primrose flowers were shining, 

Annie, dear. 
When, on my breast reclining, 

Annie, dear! 
Began our Mi-na-meala, 
And many a month did follow 
Of joy — but life is hollow, 

Annie, dear. 

IV. 

For once, when home returning, 
Annie, dear, 

I found our cottage burning, 

Annie, dear ; 

Around it were the yeomen, 

Of every ill an omen, 

The country's bitter foemen, 

Annie, dear. 

V. 

But why arose a morrow, 

Annie, dear, 

Upon that night of sorrow, 

Annie, dear ? 



BLIND MARY 71 



Far better, by thee lying, 
Their bayonets defying, 
Than live an exile sighing, 

Annie, dear. 



BLIND MARY. 

Air — Blind Mary. 



There flows from her spirit such love and delight, 
That the face of Blind Mary is radiant W\\h. light — 
As the gleam from a homestead through darkness wih 

show, 
Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow 

H. 

Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times, 
As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes ; 
And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends. 
And the starlight, as love, that nor changes nor ends. 



Ah ! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun, 
For the mountains that tower, or the rivers that run- 
For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light, 
Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight. 



72 BALLAPS AND SONGS. 



.In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade, 
In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade ; 
While the darkness that seems your sweet being to 

bound 
Is one of the guardians, an Eden around i 



THE BRIDE OF MALLOW. 

I. 
'TwAs dying they thought her, 
And kindly they brought her 
To the banks of Blackwater, 

Where her forefathers lie ; 
'Twas the place of her childhood, 
And they hoped that its wild wood, 
And air soft and mild would 

Soothe her spirit to die. 

II. 
But she met on its border 
A lad who adored her — 
No rich man, nor lord, or 

A coward, or slave ; 
But one who had worn 
A gi-een coat, and borne 
A pike from Slieve Mourne, 

With the patriots brave. 



THE URTDF. OF MALLOW. 73 

III. 

Oh ! the banks of the stream are 

Than emeralds greener : 

And liow should they wean her 

From loving the earth ? 
While the song-birds so sweet, 
And the waves at their feet, 
And each young pair they meet, 

Are all flushing with mirth. 

IV. 

And she listed his talk, 
And he shared in her walk — 
And how could she baulk 

One so gallant and true ? 
But why tell the rest? 
Her love she confest, 
And sunk on his breast, 

Like tiie eventide dew. 

V. 

Ah ! now her cheek glows 
With the tint of the rose, 
And her healthful blood flows, 

Just as fresh as the stream ; 
And her eye flashes bright. 
And her footstep is light. 
And sickness and blight 

I'led away like a dream. 
7 



74 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

VL 

And soon by his side 
She kneels a sweet bride, 
In maidenly pride 

And maidenly fears ; 
And their children were fair, 
And their home knew no care, 
Save that all homesteads were 
Not as happy as theirs. 



THE WELCOME. 

Air — An buachailin huidhe. 



Come in the evening, or come in the morning", 
Come when you're looked for, or come without warn- 
ing, 
IQsses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore 
you. 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted. 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The gi-een of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
And the linnets are singing, "true lovers! don't 
sever." 



THE WELCOME. 75 

II. 

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ; 
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. 
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; 
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 

Oh ! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed 
farmer, 

Or sabre and shield to a knight without armour ; 

I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, 

Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me. 

III. 

We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the eyrie, 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy, 
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. 
Oh ! she'll whisper you. " Love as unchangeably 

beaming. 
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming, 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 

IV. 

So come in the evening, or come in the morning, 
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning, 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
And the linnets are singing, " true lovers ! don't sever !" 



76 BALLADS AND SONiJS. 



THE MI-NA-MEALA. 



Like the rising of the sun, 

Herald of bright hours to follow, 

Lo ! the marriage rites are done, 
And begun the Mi-na-Meala. 

IL 

Heart to heart, and hand to hand. 
Vowed 'fore God to love and cherish. 

Each by each in grief to stand, 
Never more apart to flourish. 



Now their lips, low whisp'ring, speak 

Thoughts their eyes have long been saying; 

Softly bright, and richly meek. 

As seraphs first their wings essaying. 



IV. 

Deeply, wildly, warmly love — 
'Tis a heaven-sent enjoyment. 

Lifting up our thoughts above 
Selfish alms and cold employment 



THE MI-NA-MEALA. 77 

V. 



Yet, remember, passion wanes, 
Romance is parent to dejection ; 

Nought our happiness sustains 
But thoughtful care and firm affeetiou. 



VI. 



When the Mi-na-meala's flown, 
Sterner duties surely need you ; 

Do their bidding, — 'tis love's own, — 
Faithful love will say God speed you. 



Guard her comfort as 'tis worth, 
Pray to God to look down on her ; 

And swift as cannon-shot go forth 

To strive for freedom, truth, and honour. 



vm. 

Oft recall— and never swerve — 

Your children's love and her's vdll follow 
Guard your home, and there preserve 

For you an endless MUna-meala* 



* Honeymoon. 

7* 



78 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

MAIRE BHAN A STOIR. 

Air — Original. 



In a valley, ftir away, 

With my Mdire hhdn a stair,* 
Short would be the summer-day, 

Ever loving more and more ; 
Winter-days would all grow long, 

With the light her heart would pour, 
With her kisses and her song, 
And her loving maith go leor.-f 

Fond is Mdire hhdn a stOir^ 
Fair is Mdire hhdn a stair, 
Sweet as ripple on the shore, 
Sings my Mdire hhdn a stair. 

ir. 
Oh ! her sire is very proud. 

And her mother cold as stone ; 
But her brother bravely vowed 

She should be my bride alone ; 



• Which means " fair Mary my treasure." If we are to write gib- 
berish to enable some of our readers to pronounce this, we must dose 
thus, Maur-ya vaun asthore, and pretty looking stuff it is. Really it 
is time for the inhabitants of Ireland to learn [rish. — Acthor's Note 

+ Much plenty, or in abundance. — Author's Notk. 



oh! the marriage. 79 

For he knew I loved her well, 

And he knew she loved me too, 
So he sought their pride to quell, 
But 'twas all in vain to sue. 
True is Mdire bhdn a st6ir<i 
Tried is Mdire bhdn a stuify 
Had I wings I'd never soar, 
From my Mdire bhdn a stair, 

III. 
There are lands where mauly toil 
Surely reaps the crop it sows, 
Glorious woods and teeming soil. 

Where the broad Missouri flows ; 
Through the trees the smoke shall rise, 

From our hearth with maiihgo Uor, 
There shall shine the happy eyes 
Of my Mdire bhdn a stair. 

Mild is Mdire bhdn a stair. 
Mine is Mdire bhdn a stair. 
Saints will watch about the door, 
Of my Mdire bhdn a stair. 



OH! THE MARRIAGE. 

AiK — The Swaggering Jig. 

I. 
Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, 

With love and mo bhuachaill for me. 



Sd BALLADS AND SONGS. 

The ladies that ride in a carriage 

Might envy my marriage to me ; 
For Eoghan* is straight as a tower, 

And tender and lo^dng and true, 
He told me more love in an hour 

Than the Squires of the county could do. 
Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. 

II. 
His hair is a shower of soft gold, 

His eye is as clear as the day, 
His conscience and vote were unsold 

When others were carried away ; 
His word is as good as an oath. 

And freely 'twas given to me ; 
Oh ! sure 'twill be happy for both 

The day of our marriage to see. 

Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. 

HI. 
His kinsmen are honest and kind. 

The neighbours think much of his skill, 
And Eoghan's the lad to my mind. 

Though he owns neither castle nor mill. 
But he has a tilloch of land, 

A horse and a stocking of coin, 
A foot for the dance and a hand 

In the cause of his country to join. 
Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. 

* ^'"'igo Owen ; but that is, prjperly, a name among the Cymrj 
'Welsh). — Author's Note. 



A PLEA FOR LOVE. 
IV. 

We meet in the market and fair — 

We meet in the morning and night — 
He sits on the half of my chair, 

And my people are wild with delight. 
Yet I long through the winter to skim, 

Though Eoghan longs more I can See, 
When I will be married to him, 
And he will be married to me. 

Then, Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, 
With love and mo hhuachaill for me. 
The ladies that ride in a carriage, 
Might envy my marriage to me. 



A PLEA FOR LOVE. 

I. 

The summer brook flows in the bed, 

The winter torrent tore asunder ; 
The sky-lark's gentle wings are spread, 

Where walk the lightning and the thunder 
And thus you'll find the sternest soul 

The greatest tenderness concealing, 
And minds, that seem to mock control, 

Are ordered by some foiry feeling. 



2 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

II. 

Then, maiden ! start not from the hand 

That's hardened by the swaying sabre^ 
The pulse beneath may be as bland 

As evening after day of labour : 
And, maiden ! start not from the brow 

That thought has knit, and passion darkened- 
In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough, 

The tenderest tales are often hearkened. 



THE BISHOP'S DAUGHTER. 

Air— The Maid of Killala. 



Killala's halls are proud and fair ; 
Tyrawley's hills are cold and bare ; 
Yet, in the palace, you were sad, 
While, here, your heart is safe and glad. 



No satin couch, no maiden train, 
Are here to soothe each passing pain; 
Yet lay your head my breast upon,— 
'Twill turn to down for you, sweet one ! 



THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. 83 

in. 
Your father's halls are rich and fair, 
And plain the home you've come to share ; 
But happy love's a fairy king, 
And sheds a grace on every thing. 



THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. 

Air — An Cota Caol. 

I. 

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, 

His love is rich to me ; 
I could not in a palace find 

A truer heart than he. 
Tlie eagle shelters not his nest 

From hurricane and hail, 
More bravely than he guards my breast 

The Boatman of Kinsale. 

II. 
The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps 

Is not a whit more pure — 
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps 

Has not a foot more sure. 
No firmer hand nor freer eye 

E'er faijed an Autumn gale — 



84 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

De Courcy's heart is not so high — 
The Boatman of Kinsale. 

III. 
The brawling squires may heed him not, 

The dainty stranger sneer — 
But who will dare to hurt our cot, 

When Myles O'Hea is here ! 
The scarlet soldiers pass along — 

They'd like, but fear to rail — 
His blood is hot, his blow is strong— >• 

The Boatman of Kinsale. 

IV. 

His hooker's in the Scilly van, 

When seines are in the foam : 
But money never made the man, 

Nor wealth a happy home. 
So, blest with love and liberty. 

While he can trim a sail. 
He'll trust in God, and cling to me — 

The Boatman of Kinsale. 



DARLING NELL. 



I. 
Why should not I take her unto my heart ! 
She has not a morsel of guile or art ; 
Why should not I make her my happy wife. 
And love her and cherish her all my life ? 



LOVE CHAUNT. 85 

I've met with a few of as shining eyes, 
I've met with a hundred of wilder sighs, 
I think I met some whom I loved as well — 
But none who loved me like my Darling Nell. 

II. 
She's ready to cry when I seem unkind, 
But she smothers her grief within her mind ; 
And when my spirit is soft and fond, 
She sparkles the brightest of stars beyond. 
Oh ! 'twould teach the thrushes to hear her sing, 
And her sorrow the heart of a rock would wring j 
There never was saint but would leave his cell, 
If he thought he could marry my Darling Nell ! 



LOVE CHAUNT. 



I THINK I've looked on eyes that shone 

With equal splendour, 
And some, but they are dimmed and gone, 

As wnlldly tender. 
I never looked on eyes that shed 

Such home-light mingled with such beautj,- 
That 'mid all lights and shadows said, 
" I love and trust and will be true to ye." 
8 



86 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

II. 

Fve seen some lips almost as red, 

A form as stately ; 
And some such beauty turned my head 

Not very lately. 
But not till now I've seen a girl 

With form so proud, lips so delicious, 

With hair like night, and teeth of pearl,-— 

Who was not haugkty and capricious. 

III. 
Oh, fairer than the dawn of day 

On Erne's islands ! 
Oh, purer than the thorn spray 
In Bantry's highlands ! 
In sleep such visions crossed my view, 

And when I woke the phantom faded ; 
But now I find the fancy true. 
And fairer than the vision made it. 



A CHRISTMAS SCENE ; 

OR, LOVE IN THE COUNTRY. 
I. 

The hill blast comes howling through leaf-rifted treea. 
That late were as harp-strings to each gentle breeze ; 
The strangers and cousins and every one flown, 
While we sit happy-hearted — together — alone. 



CHRISTMAS SCENE. 8^ 



Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair, 
The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair ; 
Papa with his farming is busy to-day, 
And mamma's too good-natured to ramble this way. 

ni. 
The girls are gone — ^are they not ? — into town, 
To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau, down ; 
Ah ! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to coquette — 
Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet ! 



You're not — do you say ? — -just remember last night. 
You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him your 

knight ; 
Poor lad ! if he loved you — but no, darling ! no, 
You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so. 



The painters are raving of light and of shade, 
And Harry, the poet, of lake, hill, and glade ; 
While the light of your eye, and your soft wavy form 
Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright and warm. 

VI. 

The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand, 
But, you know, Kate, it's not half so white as your hand 
And say what you will of the grey Christmas sky, 
Still I slightly prefer my dark girl's grey eye. 



8S BALLAPS AND SONGS. 

vn. 
Be quiet, and sing me " The Bonny Cuckoo," 
For it bids us the summer and winter love through,- 
And then I'll read out an old ballad that shews 
How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose. 

VIII. 

My Kate ! I'm so happy, your voice whispers soft, 
And your cheek flushes wilder from kissing so oft. 
For town or for country, for mountains or farms, 
What care I ? — My darling's entwined in my arras. 



THE INVOCATION. 

Air — Fanny Power. 



Bright fairies by GlengarifTs bay. 
Soft woods that o'er Killarney sway. 
Bold echoes born in Ceim-an-eich, 

Your kinsman's greeting hear ! 
He asks you, by old friendship's name, 
By all the rights that minstrels claim, 
For Erin's joy arkd Desmond's fame. 

Be kind to Fanny dear ! 



THE INVOCATION. 89 



Her eyes are darker than Dunloe, 
Her soul is whiter than the snow, 
Her tresses like arbutus flow, 

Her step like frighted deer : 
Then, still thy waves, capricious lake ! 
And ceaseless, soft winds, round her wake, 
Yet never bring a cloud to break 

The smile of Fanny dear ! 



Oh ! let her see the trance-bound men, 
And kiss the red deer in his den, 
And spy from out a hazel glen 

O'Donoghue appear ; — 
Or, should she roam by wild Dunbwy, 
Oh ! send the maiden to her knee, 
I sung whilome,*— but then, ah ! me, 

I knew not Fanny dear ! 

IV. 

Old Mangerton ! thine eagles plume — 
Dear Innisfallen! brighter bloom — 
And Mucruss ! whisper thro' the gloom 

Quaint legends to her ear ; 
Till strong as ash-tree in its pride. 
And gay as sunoeam on the tide. 
We welcome back to Liffey's side 

Our brightest, Fanny dear. 

* Vide anre^ page 67. 
8* 



ifO BALLADS AND SONGS 



LOVE AND WAR. 



I. 
How soft is the moon on GlengarifF! 

The rocks seem to melt with the Jight ; 
Oh ! would I were there with dear Fanny, 

To tell her that love is as bright ; 
And nobly the sun of July 

O'er the waters of Adragoole shines — 
Oh ! would that I saw the green banner 

Blaze there over conquering lines. 

IL 

Oh ! love is more fair than the moonlight, 

And glory more grand than the sun ; 
And there is no rest for a brave heart, 

Till its bride and its laurels are won ; 
But next to the burst of our banner, 

And the smile of dear Fanny, I crave 
The moon on the rocks of Glengariflf — 

The sun upon Adragoole's wave. 



MY LAND. 91 



MY LAND. 

She is a rich and rare land ; 
Oh ! she's a fresh and fair land ,: 
She is a dear and rare land — 
This native land of mine. 

II. 
No men than her's are braver — 
Her women's hearts ne'er vv^aver ; 
I'd freely die to save her, 

And think my lot divine. 

ni. 

She's not a dull or cold land ; 
No ! she's a warm and bold land,' 
Oh ! she's a true and old land — 
This native land of mine. 

IV. 

Could beauty ever guard her, 
And virtue still reward her, 
No foe would cross her border- 
No friend within it pine ! 

V. 

Oh, she's a fresh and fair land ; 
Oh, she's a true and rare land ! 
Yes, she's a rare and fair land — 
This native land of mine. 



BALLADS AND SONGS. 



THE RIGHT ROAD. 

I. 

Let the feeble-hearted pine, 
Let the sickly spirit whine, 
But work and win be thine, 

While you've life. 
God smiles upon the bold — 
So, when your flag's unrolled. 
Bear it bravely till you're cold 

In the strife. 

n. 
If to rank or fame you soar. 
Out your spirit frankly pour — 
Men will serve you and adore. 

Like a king. 
Woo your girl with honest pride, 
Till you've won her for your bride — 
Then to her, through time and tide. 

Ever cling, 

IIL 

Never under wrongs despair ; 
Labour long, and everywhere. 
Link your countrymen, prepare. 

And strike home. 
Thus have great men ever wrought. 
Thus must greatness still be sought, 
Thus laboured, loved, and fought 

Greece and Rome. 



PART III. 

ILLUSTRATIVE OF 

IRISH HISTORY. 



'* This country of ours is no sand-bank, thrown up by some recent 
caprice of earth. It is an ancient land, honoured in the archives 
of civilization, traceable into antiquity by its piety, its valour, and its 
sufferings. Every great European race has sent its stream to the 
river of Irish mind. Long wars, vast organisations, subtle codes, 
beacon crimes, leading virtues, and self-mighty men were here. If 
we live influenced by wind, and sun, and tree, and not by the passions 
and deeds of the Past, we are a thriftless and hopeless people." 

Davis's Essays 



A NATION ONCE AGAIN.*f -, 

I. 
When boyhood's fii-e was in my blood, 
I read of ancient freemen, 

* This little poem, though not strictly belonging to the historical 
class, is placed first ; as striking more distinctly than any other in th 
collection, the key-note of the author's theme. — Ed. 

t Set to original music in the " Spirit of the Nation," 4to. p. 272 
-Ed. 



94 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

For Greece and Rome who bravely stood, 
Three Hundred men and Three men.* 

And then I prayed I yet might see 
Our fetters rent in twain, 

And Ireland, long a province, bo 
A Nation once again. 



And, from that time, through wildest woe, 

That hope has shone, a far light ; 
Nor could love's brightest summer glow 

Outshine that solemn starlight : 
It seemed to watch above my head 

In forum, field, and fane ; 
Its angel voice sang round my bed, 

" A Nation once again." 



It whispered, too, that " freedom's ark 

And service high and holy. 
Would be profaned by feelings dark 

And passions vain or lowly : 
For freedom comes from God's right hand, 

And needs a godly train ; 
j^jid righteous men must make our land 

A Nation once again." 



* rhe Three Hundred Greeks who died at Thermopylse, and tht 
Thro* Romans who kept the Sublician Bridge. — Author's Note. 



LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS. 95 



So, as I grew from boy o man, 

I bent me to that bidding — 
My spirit of each selfish plan 

And cruel passion ridding ; 
For, thus I hoped some day to aid — 

Oh ! can such hope be vain ? — 
When my dear country shall be made 

A Nation once again. 



LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS. 

Air — An bruach na carraige bdine.* 



Oh ! proud were the chieftains of green Inis-Fail 
As iruagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! f 

The stars of our sky, and the salt of our soil ; 
As truagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 

* Set to this beautiful Tipperary air in the "Spirit of the Na- 
tion," 4to. p. 236. 

f " That is pity, without heir in their company," i. e. What a 
pity that there is no heir of their company. See the poem of Giolla 
losa Mor Mac Firbisigh in The Genealogies^ Tribes, and Customs of 
the Ui Fiachrach, or 0''Dubhda^s Ccjuntry, printed for the Irish Arch. 
Soc. p. 230, line 2, and note d. Also, 0''Reilli/s Diet, voce—farradh 
—Author's Note. 



t)6 BALLADS AND SONGS. 

Their hearts were as soft as a child in the lap, 
Yet they were " the men in the gap" — 
And now that the cold clay their limbs doth enwrap;— 
As truagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 



n. 

'Gainst England long battling, at length they went 
down; 

As tniagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 
But they left their deep tracks on the road of renowr , 

As truagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 
We are heirs of their fame, if we're not of their race,- • 
And deadly and deep our disgrace, 
If we live o'er their sepulchres, abject and base ; — 

As truagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 



in. 

Oh ! sweet were the minstrels of kind Inis-Fail ! 

As truagh gan oidhir hi-a bh-farradh ! 
Whose music, nor ages nor sorrow can spoil ; 

As truagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh 
But their sad stifled tones are like streams flowing hid, 
Their caoine* and their piopracht f were chid, 
And their language, " that melts into music," forbid ; 

As truagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 

• JinglicBf keen t Jingl. pibroch . 



LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS. 97 



How fair were the maidens of fair Inis-Fail ! 

As iruagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 
As fresh and as free as the sea-breeze from soil, 

As ti'uagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 
Oh ! are not our maidens as fair and as pure ? 
Can our music no longer allure ? 
And can we but sob, as such wrongs we endure ? 

As truagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 



Their famous, their holy, their dear Inis-Fail ! 

As truagh gan oidhir ^n-a bhfarradh ! 
Shall it still be a prey for the stranger to spoil ? 

As truagh gan oidhir ^n-a bh-farradh ! 
Sure, brave men would labour by night and by day 
To banish that stranger away ; 
Or, dying for Ireland, the future would say 

As truagh gan oidhir ''n-a bh-farradh ! 



Oh ! shame — for unchanged is the face of our isle ; 

As truagh gan oidhir ''na bh-farradh ! 
That taught them to battle, to sing, and to smile ; 

As truagh gan oidhir hi-a bh-farradh ! 
We are heirs of their rivers, their sea, and their land, — < 
Our sky and our mountains as grand — [hand; 

We are heirs — oh ! we're not — of their heart and their 

As truagh gan oidhir ''n-a bh-farradh ! 
9 



98 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

THE FATE OF KING DATHL* 

(A.-D. 428.) t 

I. 
Darkly their glibs o'erhang". 
Sharp is their wolf-dog's fang, 
Bronze spear and falchion clang- 
Brave men might shun them 
Heavy the spoil they bear — 
Jewels and gold are there — 
Hostage and maiden fair — 

How have they won them ? 

II. 
From the soft sons of Gaul, 
Roman, and Frank, and thrall. 
Borough, and hut, and hall, — 

These have been torn. 
Over Britannia wide. 
Over fair Gaul they hied, 
Often in battle tried, — - 

Enemies mourn ! 
in. 
Fiercely their harpers sing,— 
Led by their gallant king. 
They will to Eire bring 

Beauty and treasure. 

• This and the remaining poems in Part I. have been nrranged 
nearly as possil)le in chronological sequence. — Ed. 
+ Vide Appendix 



THE FATE OF KING DATHI. §9 

Britain shall bend the knee — 
Rich shall their households be — 
When their long ships the sea 
Homeward shall measure. 



Barrow and Rath shall rise, 
Towers, too, of wondrous size, 
Tdiltin they'll solemnize, 

FeiS'Teamlirach assemble. 
Samhain and Beal shall smile 
On the rich holy isle — 
Nay ! in a little while 

CEtius shall tremble !* 



Up on the glacier's snow, 
Down on the vales below. 
Monarch and clansmen go — 

Bright is the morning. 
Never their march they slack. 
Jura is at their back. 
When falls the evening black, 

Hideous, and warninsf. 



• The consul CEtius, the shield of Italy, and terror of " the barba- 
rian," was a cotemporary of King Dathi. Feis-Teamkrach, the Par* 
liament of Tara. Tailtin, games held at Tailite, county Meath, 
Hamhain and Beal, the moon and sun which Ireland woishipped.— 
Author s Note 



LOfC 



100 raSTORICAL BALLADS. 



Eagles scream loud on high; 
Far off the chamois fly ; 
Hoarse comes the torrent's cry, 

On the rocks whitening. 
Strong are the storm's wings ; 
Down the tall pine it flings ; 
Hail-stone and sleet it brings— 

Thunder and lightning. 



Little these veterans mind • 
Thundering, hail, or wind ; 
Closer their ranks they bind — 

Matching the storm. 
While, a spear- cast or more, 
On, the front ranks before, 
Dathi the sunburst bore — 

Haughty his form. 

VIII. 

Forth from the thunder-cloud 
Leaps out a foe as proud — 
Sudden the monarch bowed — 

On rush the vanguard ; 
Wildly the king they raise — 
Struck by the lightning's blaze- 
Ghastly his dying gazo, 

Clutching his standard ! 



THE FATE OF KING DATHI. 101 

IX. 

Mild is the morning beam, 
Gently the rivers stream, 
Happy the valleys seem ; 

But the lone Islanders — 
Mark how they guard their king ! 
Hark, to the wail they sing I 
Dark is their counselling — 

Helvetia's highlanders. 



Gather, like ravens, near — 
Shall Dathi's soldiers fear 
Soon their home-path they clear — 

Rapid and daring ; 
On through the pass and plain, 
Until the shore they gain. 
And, with their spoil, again, 

Landed in Eirinn. 



Little does Eire* care 

For gold or maiden fair — 

" Where is King Dathi? — where, 

Where is my bravest ?" 
On the rich deck he lies, 
O'er him his sunburst flies — 
Solemn the obsequies, 

Eire ! thou gavest. 

• The true an-ient and modern name of this island. — Ed 

9f 



lOa HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

XIL 

See ye that countless train 
Crossing- Ros-Comain's* plain, 
Crying, like hurricane, 

Uile liu ai ? — 
Broad is his carn^s base — 
Nigh the " King's burial-plaee,"f 
Last of the Pagan race, 

Lieth King Dathi ! 



ARGAN M.6r.] 

Air — Argan Mvr. 
I. 
The Danes rush around, around ; 
To the edge of the fosse they bound ; 
Hark ! hark, to their trumpets' sound. 

Bidding them to the war ! 
Hark ! hark, to their cruel cry. 
As they swear our hearts' cores to dry. 
And their Raven red to dye ; 

Glutting their demon, Thor. 

* Angl, Roscommon. 

t Hibernice, R()ilig na Riogh, vulgo, Relignaree — " A fame is bu- 
rial-place near Cruachan, in Connacht, where the kings were usually 
interred, before the establishment of the Christian religion in Ire* 
land."— O'SnVn's Ir. Diet. 

i Vide Appendix. 



ARGAN MOR. 103 



Leaping the Rath upon, 
Here's the fiery Ceallachan — - 
He makes the Lochlonnach* wan, 

Lifting his brazen spear ! 
Ivor, the Dane, is struck down, 
For the spear broke right through bis crown. 
Yet worse did the battle frown — 

Anlaf is on our rere I 

m. 
See ! see ! the Rath's gates are broke 
And in — in, like a cloud of smoke. 
Burst on the dark Danish folk, 

Charging us everywhere^ 
Oh, never was closer fight 
Than in Argan Mor that night — 
How little do men want h'ght. 

Fighting within their lair. 

IV. 

Then girding about our king, 
On the thick of the foes we spring- 
Down — down we trample and fling, 

Gallantly though they strive : 
And never our falchions stood. 
Till we were all wet with their blood, 
And none of the pirate brood 

Went from the Rath alive ! 

• Northmen 



104 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 



THE. VICTOR'S BURIAL. 

I. 

Wrap him in iiis banner, the best shroud of the 

brave — 
Wrap him in his onchu,* and take him to his grave — 
Lay him not down lowly, like bulwark overthrown. 
But, gallantly upstanding, as if risen from his throne, 
With his craiseachf in his hand, and his sword on his 

thigh. 
With his war-belt on his waist, and his cathbharrl on 

high- 
Put his jieasg\ upon his neck — his green flag round 

him fold, 
Like ivy round a castle wall — not conquered, but 
grown old — 
^Mhuire as iruagh ! A mlmire as truagh I A 

mhuire as truagh ! ochon ! \\ 
Weep for him ! Oh ! weep for him, but remember, 

in your moan. 
That he died, in his pride, — with his foes about him 
strown. 

II. 
Oh ! shrine him in Beinn-EdairIF with his face toward? 

the foe. 
As an emblem that not death our defiance can lay 

low — 

* Flag. t Spear. t Helmet. § Collar. 

II jinglice, Wirrasthrue, ochone ! 1! Ilowth. 



THE TRUE IRISH KING. ^ 105 

Let him look across the waves from the promontory's 

breast, 
To menace back The East, and to sentinel The West; 
Sooner shall these channel waves the iron coast cut 

through, 
Than the spirit he has left, yield, Easterlings ! to you — 
Let his coffin be the hill, let the eagles of the sea 
Chorus with the surges round, the iuireamh * of the 

free! 
''Mhuire as truagh ! A mhuire as iruagh ! A mhuire 

as truagh ! ochon ! 
Weep for lum ! Oh ! weep for him, but remember, in 

your moan. 
That he died, in his pride,— with his foes about him 

strown ! 



THE TRUE IRISH KING, f 



The Caesar of Rome has a wider demesne, 

Arid the Ard Righ of France has more clans in his 

train ; 
The sceptre of Spain is more heavy with gems, 
And our crowns cannot vie with the Greek diadems ; 

• A masculine lament. t Vide Appendix. 



^06 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

But kinglier far before heaven and man 
Are the Emerald fields, and the fiery-eyed clan, 
The sceptre, and state, and the poets who sing. 
And the swords that encircle A True Irish King ! 



For he must have come from a conquering race— 

The heir of their valour, their glory, their grace : 

His frame must be stately, his step must be fleet, 

His hand must be trained to each warrior feat, 

His face, as the harvest moon, steadfast and clear, 

A head to enlighten, a spirit to cheer ; 

While the foremost to rush where the battle-branda 

ring. 
And the last to retreat is A True Irish King ! 

HI. 

Yet, not for his courage, his strength, or his name, 

Can he from the clansmen their fealty claim. 

The poorest, and highest, choose freely to-day 

The chief, that to-night they'll as truly obey ; 

For loyalty springs from a people's consent. 

And the knee that is forced had been better unbent— 

The Sacsanach serfs no such homage can bring 

As the Irishmen's choice of A True Irish King ! 

rv. 
Come, look on the pomp when they " make an O'Neill ; 
The muster of dynasts— O'h- Again,* O'ShiadhaU, 

* Angl O'Hagan, O'Shiel. 



THE TRUE IRISH KING. 107 

O'Cathdin, O'h-Anluain * O'Bhreislein, and all, 
From gentle Aird Uladhf to rude Dun na n-gall :| 
'' St. Patrick's comharba,''^ 5 with bishops thirteen, 
And ollamhs \\ and breitheamhs, IT and minstrels, are 

seen, 
Round Tulach-Og * * Rath, like the bees in the spring, 
All swarmiDsr to honour A True Irish King ! 



Unsandalled he stands on the foot-dinted rock ; 
Like a pillar-stone fixed against every shock. 
Round, round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill ; 
Like his blemishless honour, and vigilant will. 
The grey-beards are telling how chiefs by the score 
Have been crowned on " The Rath of the Kings" here 

tofore. 
While, crowded, yet ordered, within its green ring, 
Are the dynasts and priests round The True Irish 

King! 

VI. 

The chronicler read him the laws of the clan. 
And pledged him to bide by their blessing and ban ; 
His skian and his sword are unbuckled to show 
That they only were meant for a foreigner foe ; 

* Angl. O'Cahan, or Kane, O'Hanlon. 

t Angl. The Ards. t Angl. Donegal. 

^ Successor — comharba Phadruig — the Archbishop of (Ard-macha) 
Armagh. 

II Doctors or learned men. H Judges. Angl. Brehons 

** In the county s,Tir-EogTiain) Tyrone, between Cookstown and 
Stewartstown. 



108 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

A white willow wand has been put in his hand — 
A type of pure, upright, and gentle command — 
While hierarchs are blessing, the slipper they fling, 
And O'Cathain proclaims him A True Irish King ! 

VII. 

Thrice looked he to Heaven with thanks and with 

prayer — 
Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare- 
To the waves of Loch n-Eathach, * the heights of 

Srathbhan ; f 
And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan — 
One clash on their bucklers ! — one more — they are 

still— 
What means the deep pause on the crest of the hill ? 
Why gaze they above him ? — a war-eagle's wing ! 
'' ' Tis an omen ! — Hurrah ! for The True Irish King !" 



vrn. 

God aid him ! — God save him ! — and smile on his reign — 

The terror of England — the ally of Spain. 

May his sword be triumphant o'er Sacsanach arts 

Be his throne ever girt by strong hands, and true hearts ! 

.May the course of his conquests run on till he see 

The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea ! 

May minstrels for ever his victories sing. 

And saints make the bed of The True Irish King ! 

* Angl. Lough Neagh. t Angl. Straban«. 



THE GERALDINES. 109 



THE GERALDINES. 



The Geraldines ! the Geraldines !— 'tis full a thousand 

years 
Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed their 

battle-spears ; 
When Capet seized the crown of France, their iron 

shields were known, 
And their sabre-dint struck terror on the flanks of the 

Garonne : 
Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by 

William's side, 
And the grey sands of Palestine with Moslem blood 

they dyed ; — 
But never then, nor thence, till now, have falsehood or 

disgrace 
Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle in his 

face. 

n. 

The Geraldines ! the Geraldines !— 'tis true, in Strong- 
bow's van 

By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign be- 
gan ; 

And, oh ! through many a dark campaign they proved 
their prowess stern, 

In Leinster's plains, and Munster's vales, on king, and 
chief, and kerne : 

10 



110 HISTORICAL BALl.ADS. 

But Doble was the cheer within the halls so rudely j 

won, I 

And generous was the steel-gloved hand that had suehi: 

slaughter done ; 1 

How gay their laugh, how proud their mien, you'd ask ; 

no herald's sign — 
Among a thousand you had known the princely Geral- ■ 

dine. 



These Geraldines ! these Geraldines ! — not long our 

air they breathed ; 
Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water seethed ; 
Not often had their children been by Irish mothers 

nursed, 
When from their full and genial hearts an Irish feeling 

burst ! 
The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, and force, 

and bribe. 
To win from. Irish thoughts and ways this "more than 

Irish" tribe; 
For still they clung to fosterage, to hreitlieamh, cloak, 

and bard : 
What king dare say to Geraldine, "your Irish wife 

discard"? 

IV. 

Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! — ^how royally ye reigned 
O'er Desmond broad, and rich Elildare, and EDglish 
arts disdained : 



THE GERALDINES. Ill 

Your sword made knights, your banner waved, free wag 
your bugle call 

By Gleann's* green slopes, and Daingean'sf tide, 
from Bearbha's| banks to Eochaill.§ 

What gorgeous shrines, what breitlieamhW lore, what 
minstrel feasts there were 

In and around Magh Nuadhaid'slf keep, and palace- 
filled Adare ! 

But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend or kin 
were pressed ; 

And focmen fled, when " Crom Abu''** bespoke your 
lance in rest. 



V. 

Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines !— since Silken Thomas 

flung 
King Henry's sword on council board, the English 

thanes among, 
Ye never ceased to battle brave against the English 

sway. 
Though axe and brand and treachery your proudest cut 

away. 
Of Desmond's blood, through woman's veins passed on 

th' exhausted tide ; 
His title lives — a Sacsanach churl usurps the lion's hide ; 



* Angl. Glyn. t -Angl Dingle. t ^"gl- Barrow. 

§ Angl. Youghal |1 Angl. Brehon. t Angl. Maynooth. 

•• Formerly the war-cry of the Geraldines ; and now their motto 



112 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

i. And, though Kildare tower haughtily, there's ruin at 
the root, 
Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such a tree no 
fruit? 

VI. 

True Geraldines ! brave Geraldines ! — ^as torrents mould 

the earth, 
You channelled deep old Ireland's heart by constancy 

and worth : 
When Ginckle 'Icaguered Limerick, the Irish soldiers 



To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's banner 
blazed ! 

And still it is the peasants' hope upon the Cuirreach's * 
mere, 

" They live, who'll see ten thousand men with good 
Lord Edward here" — 

So let them dream till brighter days, when, not by Ed- 
ward's shade. 

But by some leader true as he, their lines shall be 
arrayed ! 

VII. 

These Geraldines ! these Geraldines ! — rain wears away 

the rock. 
And time may wear away the tribe that stood the 

battle's shock, 

• Angl. Curragh. 



THE GERALDINES. 113 

But, ever, sure, while one is left of all that honoured 

race. 
In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzgerald's place : 
And, though the last were dead and gone, how many a 

field and town. 
From Thomas Court to Abbeyfeile, would cherish their 

renown, 
And men would say of valour's rise, or ancient power's 

decline, 
" Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the Geral- 

dine." 

VIII. 

The Geraldines! the Geraldines! — and are there any 

fears 
Within the sons of conquerors for full a thousand years 1 
Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with 

martyrs' blood? 
Or has that grown a purling brook, which long rushed 

down a flood ? — 
By Desmond swept with sword and fire, — by clan and 

keep laid low, — 
By Silken Thomas and his kin, — by sainted Edward ! 

No! 
The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish line 
Command their son to take the post that fits 

THE GeRALDINE !* 



• The concluding stanza, now first published, was found among 
the author's papers. — Ed. 

10* 



114 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

O'BRIEN OF ARA.* 

Air — The Piper of Blessington, 



Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh — f 

Broad are the lands of MacCarrthalgh — J 
Desmond feeds five hundred men a day ; 
Yet, here's to O'Briain^ of Ara ! 

Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,|I 

Down from the top of Camailte, 
Clansman and kinsman are coming here 
To give him the cead mile failte. 



See you the mountains look huge at eve — 

So is our chieftain in battle — 
Welcome he has for the fugitive, — 
Uisce-beatha,^ fighting, and cattle ! 

Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 
Gossip and ally are coming here 
To give him the cead mile failte. 



• Ara is a small mountain tract, south of Loch Deirgdheirc, and 
north of the Camailte {vu'go the Keeper) hills. It was the seat of a 
branch of the Thomond princes, called the O'Briens of Ara, who 
hold an important place in the Munster Annals. — Author's No te. 

t VvJgo, O'Kennedy. % ^«^- M'Carthy. § Vul. O'Brica 

ll Vul. Drumineer. T Vul. Usquebaugh. 



O'BRIEN OF ARA. llfi 



Horses the valleys are tramping on, 

Sleek from the Sacsanach manger — 
Creachs the hills are encamping on, 
Empty the b^as of the stranger ! 

Up from the Castle of Druira-aniar, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 
Ceithearn* and huannacht are coming here 
To give him the cead mile failte. 



He has black silver from Cill-da-luaf — 

Rian| and Cearbhall^ are neighbours — 
'N Aonachll submits with Sifuililiu — 
Butler is meat for our sabres ! 

Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 
Rian and Cearbhall are coming here 
Togive him the cead mile failte. 

V. 

'Tis scarce a week since through OsairghelT 
Chased he the Baron of Durmhagh — ** 

Forced him five rivers to cross, or he 

Had died by the sword of Red M urchadh Iff 



* Vulgo, Kerne. f Vul. Killaloe. t Vul. Ryan. 

^ Vul. Carroll. II Vul. Nenagh. IT Vul. Ossory 

•* Vul. Durrow tt V^J- Murrough. 



116 HISTORICAL lALLADS. 

Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 

All the Ui Bhriain are coming here 
To give him the cead mile failte. 



Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh— 

Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh — 
Desmond feeds five hundred men a day ; 
Yet, here's to O'Briain of Ara ! 

Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 
Clansman and kinsman are coming here 
To give him the cead mile failtf. 



EMMELINE TALBOT. 

A BALLAD OF THE PALE. 

CThe Scene is on the borders of Dublin and Wicklow ] 

I. 

'TwAs a September day — 

In Glenismole,* 
Emmeline Talbot lay 

On a green knoll. 

• ^iicrntcc,— Gleann-an-smoil 



EMMELINE TALBOT. 117 

She was a lovely thing, 
Fleet as a falcon's wing, 
Only fifteen that spring — 
Soft was her soul. 

n. 
Danger and dreamless sleep 

Much did she scorn, 
And from her father's keep 

Stole out that morn. 
Towards Glenismole she hies ;— 
Sweetly the valley lies, * 

Winning the enterprise, — 

No one to warn. 



Till by the noon, at length, 

High in the vale, 
Emmelme found her strength 

Suddenly fail. 
Panting, yet pleasantly, 
By Dodder-side lay she — 
Thrushes sang merrily, 

« Hail, sister, hail !" 

IV. 

Hazel and copse of oak 
Made a sweet lawn. 

Out from the thicket broke 
Rabbit and fawn. 



118 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

Green were the eiscirs round, 
Sweet wa3 the river's sound, 
Eastwards flat Cruach frowned, 
South lay Sliabh Bdn. 

V. 

Looking round Barnakeel,* 

Like a tall Moor 
Full of impassioned zeal, 

Peeped brown Kippure.f 
Dublin in feudal pride. 
And many a hold beside. 
Over Finn-ghaillJ preside— 

Sentinels sure ! 

VI. 

Is that a roebuck's eye 

Glares from the green 1 — 
Is that a thrush's cry 

Rings in the screen? 
Mountaineers round her sprung, 
Savage their speech and tongue, 
Fierce was their chief and young-— 

Poor Emmeline ! 

VII, 

" Hurrah, 'tis Talbot's child," 
Shouted the kerne, 

• Hii. Bearna-chael. f Hib Keap-iubhair. i Vulg. Fingal. 



EMMELINE TALBOT. 119 

" Off to the mountains wild, 

Faire* O'Byrne!" 
Like a bird in a net, 
Strove the sweet maiden yet, 
Praying- and slirieking, " Let — 

Let me return." 



After a moment's doubt, 

Forward he sprung, 
With his sword flashing out- 
Wrath on his tongue. 
" Touch not a hair of her's — 
Dies he, who finger stirs !" 
Back fell his foragers — 
To him she clung. 



IX. 

Soothing the maiden's fears, 

Kneeling was he, 
When burst old Talbot's spears 

Out on the lea. 
March-men, all staunch and stout, 
Shouting their Belgard shout — 
" Do\vn with the Irish rout, 
Prels d'accomplir.^''^ 

Vulg. Farrah. t The motto and cry of the Talbot*. 



120 HisToracAL ballads. 

X. 

Taken thus unawares, 
Some fled amain — 
Fighting like forest bears, 

Others were slain. 
To the chief clung the maid — 
How could he use his blade ?— ■ 
That night, upon him weighed 
Fetter and chain. 



Oh ! but that night was long, 

Lying forlorn, 
Since, 'mid the wassail song, 

These words were borne — 
" Nathless your tears and cries, 
Sure as the sun shall rise, 
Connor O'Byrne* dies, 

Talbot has sworn." 

xn. 

Brightly on Tamhlachtf hill 

Flashes the sun ; 
Strained at his window-sill, 

How his eyes run 
From lonely Sagart slade 
Down to Tigh-bradan glade, 
Landmarks of border raid. 

Many a one. 

• Hib Couchobhar O'Broin. Vulg. Tallaght 



EMMELINE TALBOT. 121 

xin. 

Too well the captive knows 

Belgard's main wall 
Will, to his naked blows, 

Shiver and fall, 
Ere in his mountain hold 
He shall again behold 
Those whose proud hearts are cold, 

Weeping his thrall. 

XIV. 

" Oh ! for a mountain side, 

Bucklers and brands! 
Freely I could have died 

Heading my bands. 
But on a felon tree " — 
Bearing a fetter key. 
By him all silently 

Emmeline stands. * * 



XV. 

Late rose the castellan. 
He had drunk deep, — 

Warder and serving-man 
Still were asleep, — 

Wide Is the castle-gate, 

Open the captive's grate. 

Fetters disconsolate 
Flung in a heap. * * 
11 



122 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 



'Tis an October day, 

Close by Loch Dan 
Many a creach lay, 

Many a man. 
'Mongst them, in gallant mien, 
Connor O'Byrne's seen 
Wedded to Emmeline, 

Girt by his clan ! 



O'SULLIVAN'S RETURN.* 

Am — An cruisgin ldn.\ 



O'SuiLLEBHAiN has como 
Within sight of his home, 

He had left it long years ago ; 
The tears are in his eyes, 
And he prays the wind to rise. 
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow, from the 

prow; 
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow. 

* Vide Appendix. t Slow time 



o Sullivan's return. 123 

II. 
For the day had been calm, 
And slow the good ship swam, 

And the evening gun had been fired ; 
He knew the hearts beat wild 
Of mother, wife, and child, 
And of clans, who to see him long desired, long desired; 
And of clans, who to see him long desired 

ra. 
Of the tender ones the clasp, 
Of the gallant ones the grasp. 

He thinks, until his tears fall warm ; 
And full seems his wide hall. 
With friends from wall to wall. 
Where their welcome shakes the banners, like a storm, 

like a storm ; 
Where their welcome shakes the banners like a storm. 

rv. 
Then he sees another scene — 
Norman churls on the green — 

" O^ SuilleahJiain ahu'^ is the cry; 
For filled is his ship's hold 
With arms and Spanish gold. 
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high, 

wave on high ; 
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on hio-h.* 

• The standard bearings of O'Sullivan. Sec O'Donovan's edition 
of 1 lie Banquet of Dun na i-Gedh, and the Battle of Magh Rath, foi 



124 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

V. 

" Finghin's race shall be freed 
From the Norman's cruel breed — 

My sires freed Bear' once before, 
When the Barnwells were strewn 
On the fields, like hay in June, 
And but one of them escaped from our shore, from our 

shore ; 
Apd but one of them escaped from our shore."* 



VI. 

And, warming in his dream, 

He floats on victory's stream. 

Till Desmond — till all Erin is free ! 

Then, how calmly he'll go down, 

Full of years and of renown. 
To his grave near that castle by the sea, by the sea ; 
To his grave near that castle by the sea! 



the Archaeological Society, App. p. 349. — " Bearings of O'SuUivan at 
the Battle of Caisglinn." 

*' I see, mightily advancing on the plain. 

The banner of the race of noble Finghin ; 

His spear with a venomous adder {entwined), 

His host all fiery champions." 
Finghin was one of their must famous progenitors. — Author's Note. 
• The Barnwells were Normans, who seized part of Beara in the 
reign of Henry II. ; but the O'Sullivans came down on them, and cut 
off all save one — a young man who settled at Drimnagh Castle, Co. 
Dublin, and wa» ancestor to the Barnwells, Lords of Trimlestone and 
Kingsland. — Author's Note. 



o'sullivan's return. 125 

VII. 

But the wind heard his word, 
As though he were its lord, 

And the ship is dashed up the Bay. 
Alas ! for that proud barque. 
The night has fallen dark, 
'Tis too late to Eadarghabhal* to bear away, to bear 

away; 
'Tis too late to Eadarghabhal to bear away. 



Black and rough was the rock. 

And terrible the shock. 

As the good ship crashed asunder ; 

And bitter was the cry. 

And the sea ran mountains high. 
And the wind was as loud as the thunder, the thunder , 
And the wind was as loud as the thunder. 



There's woe in Beara, 
There's woe in Gleann-garbh,f 

And from Beanntraighef unto Dun-kiardin ;{ 
All Desmond hears their grief. 
And wails above their chief — 
" Is it thus, is it thus, that you return, you return- 
Is it thus, is it thus, that you return ?" 

• Vul. Adragoole. t Vul. GlengarriflF. t Vul. Bantry 

^ Vul. Dunkerron. 

11* 



126 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 



THE FATE OF THE O'SULLIVANS. 



" A BABY in the mountain gap — 

Oh ! wherefore bring it hither ? 
Restore it to it's mother's lap, 

Or else 'twill surely wither. 
A baby near the eagle's nest ! 

How should their talons spare it 1 
Oh ! take it to some woman's breast, 

And she will kindly care it." 

II. 
« Fear not for it," M'Swiney said, 
And stroked his cul-Jionn* slowly. 
And proudly raised his matted head. 
Yet spoke me soft and lowly — 

• After the taking of Dunbwy and the ruin of the O'Sullivan's 
country, the chief marched right through Muskerry and Ormond, 
hotly pursued. He crossed the Shannon in curachs made of his 
horses' skins. He then defeated the English forces and slew their 
commander, Manby, and finally fought his way into O'Ruarc's 
country. During his absence his lady {Beantighearna) and infant 
■were supported in the mountains by one of his clansmen, M'Swiney, 
■who, tradition says, used to rob the eagles' nests of their prey for his 
charge. O'Sullivan was excepted from James the First's amnesty on 
account of his persevering resistance. He went to Spain, and was 
appointed governor of Corunna and Viscount Berehaven. His manh 
from Glengarriif to Leitrim is, perhaps, the most romantic and gal- 
lant achievement of his age. — Author's Note. 

t Vulgo, coulin. 



FATE OF THE SULLIVANS. 127 

fe** not for it, for, many a day, 

I climb the eagle's eyrie, 
And bear the eaglet's food away 

To feed our little fairy. 

III. 
Fear not for it, no Bantry bird 

Wonld harm our chieftain's baby" — 
He stopped, and something in him stirred— 

'Twas for his chieftain, may be. 
And then he brushed his softened eyes, 

And raised his bonnet duly. 
And muttered " the Beanlighearna lies 

Asleep in yonder buailV^* 

IV. 

He pointed 'twixt the cliff and lake, 

And there a hut of heather. 
Half hidden in the craggy brake, 

Gave shelter from the weather ; 
The little tanist shrieked with joy, 

Adown the gully staring — 
The clansman swelled to see the boy, 

O'SuUivan-like, daring. 



Oh ! what a glorious sight was there, 
As from the summit gazing, 

O'er winding creek and islet fair, 
And mountain waste amazing; 

* Vulgo, bouUe. 



138 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

The Caha and Dunkerron hills 
Cast half the gulfs in shadow, 

While shone the suti on Culiagh's rills, 
And Whiddy's emerald meadow — 

VI. 

The sea a sheet of crimson spread, 

From Foze to Dursey islands ; 
While flashed the peaks fr^m Mizenhead 

To Musk'ry's distant highlands — 
I saw no kine, I saw no sheep, 

I saw nor house nor furrow ; 
But round the tarns the red deer leap, 

Oak and arbutus thorough. 



Oh ! what a glorious sight was there, 

That paradise o'ergazing — 
When, sudden, burst a smoky glare, 

Above Glengarriff" blazing — 
The clansman sprung upon his feet — 

Well might the infant wonder — 
His hands were clenched, his brow was knit, 

His hard lips just asunder. 

VIII. 

Like shattered rock from out the ground, 
He stood there stiff and silent — 

Our breathing hardly made a sound. 
As o'er the baby I leant ; 



FATE OF THE o'sULLIVANS. 129 

His figure then went to and fro, 
As the tall blaze would flicker — 

And as exhausted it sunk low, 
His breath came loud and thicker. 

IX. 

Then slowly turned he round his head, 

And slowly turned his figure ; . 
His eye was fixed as Spanish lead, 

His limbs were full of rigour — 
Then suddenly he grasped the child, 

And raised it to his shoulder, 
Then pointing where, across the wild, 

The fire was seen to smoulder : — 

X. 

*' Look, baby ! — look, there is the sign, 

Your father is returning. 
The ' generous hand' of Finghin's line 

Has set that beacon burning. 
' The generous hand' — Oh ! Lord of hosts— 

Oh, Virgin, ever holy ! 
There's nought to give on Bantry's coasts — 

Dunbwy is lying lowly. 

xr. 
" The halls, where mirth and minstrelsy 
Than Beara's wind rose louder. 
Are flung in masses lonelily. 

And black with English powder — 



130 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

The sheep that o'er our mountains ran, 
The kine that filled our valleys, 

Are gone, and not a single clan 
O'SuUivan now rallies. 



He, long the Prince of hill and bay! 

The ally of the Spaniard ! 
Has scarce a single aih to-day, 

Nor seamen left to man yard" — 
M'Swiney ceased, then fiercely strode 

Bearing along the baby. 
Until we reached the rude abode 

Of Bantry's lovely lady. 

XIIL 

We found her in the savage shed — 

A mild night in mid winter — 
The mountain heath her only bed, 

Her dais the rocky splinter ! 
The sad Beaniighearri' had seen the fire- 

'Twas plain she had been praying — < 
She seized her son, as we came nigher, 

And welcomed me, thus saying — 



" Our gossip's friend I gladly greet. 
Though scant'ly I can cheer him ;" 
Then bids the clansman fly to meet 
And tell her lord she's near him. 



*A1E OF THE OSULLIVANS. 131 

M'Swiney kissed his foster son, 
And shouting out his /aire — 
" G* Suillehhain ahu^'* — is gone 

Like Marchman's deadly arrow ! 

XV. 

An hour went by, when, from the shore 

The chieftain's horn winding, 
Awoke the echoes' hearty roar — 

Their fealty reminding : 
A moment, and he faintly gasps — 

" These — these, thank heav'n, are left me"— 
And smiles as wife and child he clasps— 

" They have not quite bereft me." 

XVI. 

I never saw a mien so grand, 

A brow and eye so fearless — 
There was not in his veteran band 

A single eyelid tearless. 
His tale is short — O'Ruarc's strength 

Could not postpone his ruin, 
And Leitrim's towers he left at length, 

To spare his friend's undoing. 

xvn. 
To Spain — to Spain, he now will sail, 

His destiny is wroken — 
An exile from dear Inis-fail, — 

Nor yet his will is broken ; 



132 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

For still he hints some enterprise, 
When fleets shall bring them over, 

Dunbwy's proud keep again shall rise, 
And mock the English rover. * * * 

xvin. 
I saw them cross Slieve Miskisk o'er, 

The crones around them weeping— 
I saw them pass from Culiagh's shore. 

Their galleys' strong oars sweeping, 
I saw their ship unfurl its sail — 

I saw their scarfs long waven — 
They saw the hills in distance fail— 

They never saw Berehaven ! 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. * 



The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred 

isles — 
The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's i 

rough defiles — 

* Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South 
Munster. It grew up round a Castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after 
his ruin, colonized by the English. On the '20th of June, 1631, the 
crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked 
the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too > 
young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up 
the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 13:5 

)ld Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting 

bird ; 
Vnd in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard ; 
rhe hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease 

their play ; 
rhe gossips leave the little inn; the househo.ds kneel 

to pray — 
Ajid full of love, and peace, and rest— its daily labour 

o'er — 
Qpon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. 



n. 
A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight 

there ; 
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, 

or an*. 
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious 

of the calm ; 
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy 

balm. 
So still the night, these two long barques, round Dun- 

ashad that glide, 
Must trust their oars—methinks not few— against the 

ebbing tide — • 

they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was con- 
victed and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. 
To the arfst, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is 
most intere.t,ing.-See » The Ancient and Present State of the J^oun- 
ty and City of Cork," by Charles SmHh, M. D., vol. 1, p. 2.0. Second 
cdilion. Dublin, 1774.-Author's Note. 
12 



134 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them i 

to the shore — 
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltic 

more! 

m. 

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, , 

And these must be the lover's friends, with gentle glid- - 
ing feet — 

A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! " the roof is in a i 
flame!" 

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and i 
sire, and dame — 

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming ; 
sabre's fall, 

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crim- 
son shawl — 

The yell of " Allah" breaks above the prayer, and 
shriek, and roar — 

Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! 

rv. 

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shear- 
ing sword; 

Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her 
son was gored ; 

Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand- babes 
clutching wild; 

rhcn fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with 
the child : 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 135 

But see, yon pii-ate strangled lies, and crushed with 
splashing heel. 

While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian 
steel — 

Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield 
their store. 

There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Balti- 
more ! 

V. 

Mid -summer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to 

sing— 
They see not now the milking maids — deserted is the 

spring ! 
Mid-summer day — this gallant rides from distant Ban- 
don's town — 
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skifFfrom 

Affadown ; 
They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' 

blood besprent. 
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they 

wildly went — 
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cleire, and saw five 

leagues before 
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. 

VI. 

Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must 

tend the steed — 
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's 

jerreed. 



136 HISTORICAL EAILADS. 

Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Darda- • 

nelles ; 
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. 
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the 

Dey— 
She's safe — she's dead — she stabbed him in the midst of 

his Serai; 
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they 

bore, 
She only smiled — O'DriscoU's child — she thought of 

Baltimore. 

VII. 

Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath thai 

bloody band. 
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse 

stand, 
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is 

seen — 
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan — he, who steered the Alge- 

rine! 
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing 

prayer, 
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred 

there — 
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought tho 

Norman o'er — 
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. 



LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUADH. 



137 



LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN 
RUADH O'NEILL * 

[Time— lOth Nov., 1649. Scene— Orraond's Camp, County Water- 
ford. Speakers— A Veteran of Eoghan O'Neill's clan, and one ol 
the horsemen, just arrived with an account of his death.J 

I. 

« Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh 

O'Neill r' 
" Yes, they slew with poison him, they feared to meet 

with steel." 
« May God wither up then- hearts ! May their blood 

cease to flow ! 
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan 

Ruadh ! 

n. 
Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter 

words." 
" From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure 

swords ; 
But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way, 
And he died at Cloch Uachtar,f upon Saint Leonard's 

day." 



* Commonly called Owen Roe O'Neill. Vide Appettdix. 
t VulgOy Clorgh Onghter. 

12* 



138 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

III. 

" Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One ! Wail, wa:l ye 

for the Dead ; 
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath — ^with ashes 

strew the head. 
How tenderly we loved him ! How deeply we deplore ! 
Holy Saviour ! but to think we shall never see him 

more. 

IV. 

Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the Hall 
Sure we never won a battle — 'twas Eoghan won them 

all. 
Had he lived — had he lived — our dear country had been 

free ; 
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll 

ever be. 

V. 

O'Farrell and Clanriekarde, Preston and Red Hugh, 
Audley and MacMahon — ^ye are valiant, wise, and true ; 
But — what, what are ye all to our darling who is gone ? 
The Rudder of our ship was he, our Castle's corner 
stone ! 

VI. 

Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep for 

our pride ! 
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had 

died! 



LAMENT FOR EOGHAN EUADH. *^^ 

Weep the Victor of Beann-bhorbh* — weep him, young 

man and old; 
Weep for him, ye women — your Beautiful lies cold ! 

VII. 

We thought you would not die — we were sure you 

would not go, 
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel 

blow — 
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out 

the sky — 
Oh ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? Why did you die ? 

VIII. 

Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill ! bright was 

your eye, 
Oh ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? why did you die ? 
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on 

high ; 
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan ! — why did 

you die ?" 



* Vul fienbnrb 



140 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

A RALLY FOR IRELAND * 

[may, 1689.]t 



Shout it out, till it ring 

From Beann-mh6r to Cape Cleire, 
For our country and king. 
And religion so dear. 
Rally, men ! rally — 
Irishmen ! rally ! 
Gather round the dear flag, that, wet with our tears, 
And torn, and bloody, lay hid for long years. 
And now, once again, in its pride re-appears. 

See ! from The Castle our green banner waves, 
Bearing fit motto for uprising slaves — 

For Now OR NEVER ! 
Now AND FOR EVER ! 

Bids you to battle for triumph or graves — 
Bids you to burst on the Sacsanach knaves — 

Rally, then, rally ! 

Irishmen, rally ! 

Shout Now OR NEVER ! 
Now AND FOR EVER ! 

Heed not their fury, however it raves, 
Welcome their horsemen with pikes and with 
staves, 

• Set to orig-inal music m " Spirit of Nition," 4to., p. 121. 
t Vide Apoendix 



A RALLY FOR IRELAND. 141 

'Close on their cannon, their bay'nets, and glaives, 
Down with their standard wherever it waves ; 
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves ! 
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves ! 



Gallant Sheldon is here, 

And Hamilton, too, 
And Tirchonaill so dear, 

And Mac Carrthaigh, so true. 
And there are Frenchmen; 
Skilful and staunch men — 
De Rosen, Pontic, Pusignan, and Boisseleau, 
And gallant Lauzun is a coming, you know, 
With Balldearg, the kinsman of great Eoghan Ruadh. 
From Sionaiun to Banna, from Life to Laoi,* 
The country is rising for Libertie. 
Tho' your arms are rude, 
If your courage be good. 
As the traitor fled will the stranger flee, 
At another Drom-mor, from " the Irishry." 
Arm peasant and lord ! 
Grasp musket and sword ! 
Grasp pike-staff" and skian I 
Give your horses the rein I 
March, in the name of his Majesty — 
Ulster and Munster unitedly — 

* Vulgo, Shannon, Bann, LifFey, and Lee. 



142 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

Townsman and peasant, like waves of the sea— « 
Leinster and Connacht to victory — 
Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty, 
Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty. 

III. 
Kirk, Schomberg and Churchill 

Are coming — what then ? 
We'll drive them and Dutch Will 
To England again ; 

We can laugh at each threat, 
For our Parliament's met — 
De Courcy, O'Briain, Mac Domhnaill, Le Poer, 
O'Neill and St. Lawrence, and others go leor, 
The choice of the land from Athluaia* to the shore ! 
They'll break the last link of the Sacsanach chain — 
They'll give us the lands of our fathers again ! 
Then up ye ! and fight 
For your King and your Right, 
Or ever toil on, and never complain, 
Tho' they trample your roof-tree, and rifle your 
fane. 

Rally, then, rally ! 
Irishmen, rally — 

Fight Now OR NEVER, 
Now AND FOR EVER ! 

Laws are in vain without swords to maintain ; 
So, muster as fast as the fall of the rain : 

• Vulgo, Athlone. 



THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 143 

Serried and rough as a field of ripe gram, 
Stand by your flag upon mountain and plain : 
Charge till yourselves or your foemen are slain I 
Fight till yourselves or your foemen are slain ! 



THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.* 

[August 27, 1690.] 
Air — Garradh Eoghain.j 



Oh, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is nigh, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. 
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, 
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 
King William's men round Limerick lay 
His cannon crashed from day to day, 
Till the southern wall was swept away 

At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.\ 
'Tis afternoon, yet hot the sun, 
When William fires the signal gun, 
And, like its flash, his columns run 

On the city of Luimneacli linn-ghlas. 

• Vide Appendix. t Garryoweii. 

t " Limerick of the azure river." See " The Circuit of Ireland, 
p. 47 —Author's Note. 



144 mSTORICAL BALLADS. 

II. 

Yet, hurrah ! for the men, who, when clangor is nigh, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. 
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, 
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 
The breach gaped out two perches wide, 
The fosse is filled, the batteries plied ; 
Can the Irishmen that onset bide 

At the city of Luimneach linnghlas. 
Across the ditch the columns dash, 
Their bayonets o'er the rubbish flash, 
When sudden comes a rending crash 

From the city of Luimneach Unn-ghlas. 

IlL 

Then, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is nifrh. 

Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. 

Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, 

And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 
The bullets rain in pelting shower, 
And rocks and beams from wall and tower 
The Englishmen are glad to cower 

At the city of Luimneach Unn-ghlas. 
But, rallied soon, again they pressed. 
Their bayonets pierced full many a breast, 
Till they bravely won the breach's crest 

At the city of Luimneach Unn-ghlas. 

IV. 

Yet, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is nigli, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye, 



THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 145 

hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, 
Vnd hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 
Then fiercer grew the Iriah yell, 
And madly on the foe they fell. 
Till the breach grew like the jaws of hell — 

Not the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 
The women fought before the men, 
Each man became a match for ten, 
/ So back they pushed the villains then. 

From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 



Then, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is nigh, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye 
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, 
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 
But Bradenburgh the ditch has crost, 
And gained our flank at little cost — 
The bastion's gone — the town is lost ; 

Oh ! poor city of Luimneach linn-ghlas 
When, sudden, Sarsfield springs the mine, 
Like rockets rise the Germans fine. 
And come down dead, 'mid smoke and shine, 
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 

VI. 

So, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is nign, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. 
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall. 
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 
13 



146 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

Out, with a roar, the Irish sprung, . 
And back the beaten English flung 
Till William fled, his lords among. 

From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 
'Twas thus was fought that glorious fight, 
V By Irishmen, for Ireland's right — 
May all such days have such a night 

As the battle of Luimneach linn-ghlas 



PART IV. 

ILLUSTRATIVE OF 

IRISH HISTORY. 



" By a Ballad History we do not mean a metrical chronicle, or anj 
continued work, but a string of ballads chronologically arranged, and 
illustrating the main events of Irish History, its characters, customs, 
scenes, and passions. 

" Exact dates, subtle plots, minute connexions and motives, rarely 
appear in Ballads ; and for these ends the worst prose history is 
superior to the best Ballad series ; but these are not the highest ends 
of history. To hallow or accurse the scenes of glory and honour, 
or of shame and sorrow — to give to the imagination the arms, and 
noraes and senates, and battles of other days — to rouse and soften 
and strengthen and enlarge us with the passions of great periods — 
to lead us into love of self-denial, of justice, of beauty, of valour, of 
generous life and proud death — and to set up in our souls the me- 
mory of great men, who shall then be as models and judges of oui 
actions — these are the highest duties of History, and these are best 
taught by a Ballad History." — Davis's Essays. 



THE PENAL DAYS. 

Air — The Wheelwright. 
I. 
Oh ! weep those days, the penal days, 
When Ireland hopelessly complained 



148 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

On . weep those days, the penal days, 
When godless persecution reigned ; 
When, year by year, 
For serf and peer, 
Fresh cruelties were made by law, 
And, filled with hate, 
Our senate sate 
To weld anew each fetter's flaw ; 
Oh ! weep those days, those penal days — 
Their memory still on Ireland weighs. 

II. 
They bribed the flock, they bribed the son, 

To sell the priest and rob the sire ; 
Their dogs were taught alike to run 
Upon the scent of wolf and friar. 
Among the poor, 
Or on the moor. 
Were hid the pious and the true — 
While traitor knave, 
And recreant slave. 
Had riches, rank, and retinue : 
And, exiled in those penal days, 
Our banners over Europe blaze. 

• III. 

A stranger held the land and tower 

Of many a noble fugitive ; 
No Popish lord had lordly power. 
The peasant scarce had leave to live ; 



THE PENAL DAYS. 149 

Above his head 
A ruined shed, 
No tenure but a tyrant's will — 
Forbid to plead, 
Forbid to read. 
Disarmed, disfranchised, imbecile — 
What wonder if our step betrays 
The freedman, born in penal days ? 

They're gone, they're gone, those penal days ! 

All creeds are equal in our isle ; 
Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace, 
Our ancient feuds to reconcile. 
Let all atone 
For blood and groan, 
For dark revenge and open wrong, 
Let all unite 
For Ireland's right, 
And drown our griefs in freedom's song ; 
Till time shall veil in twilight haze, 
The memory of those penal days. 



13* 



160 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

THE DEATH OF SARSFIET.D. * 

A CHAUNT OF THE BRIGADE. 
1. 

Sarsfield has sailed from Limerick Town, 
He held it long for country and crown ; 
And ere he yielded, the Saxon swore 
To spoil our homes and our shrines no more. 

II. 
Sarsfield and all his chivalry 
Are fighting for France in the low countrie— 
At his fiery charge the Saxons reel, 
They learned at Limerick to dread the steel. 

III. 
Sarsfield is dying on Landen's plain ; 
His corslet hath met the ball in vain — 
As his life-blood gushes into his hand, 
He says, " Oh ! that this was for father-land!" 

* Sarsfield was slain on the 29th July, 1693, at Landen, heading 
his countrymen in the van of victory, — King William flying. He 
could not have died better. His last thoughts were for his country. 
As he lay on the field unhelmed and dying, he put his hand to his 
breast. When he took it away, it was full of his best blood. Look- 
ing at it sadly with an eye in which victory shone a moment before, 
he snid faintly, " Oh ! that this were for Ireland." He said no more ; 
and history records nonobl r saying, nor any more becoming death. — 
Author's Note. — Vide Appendix, for a brief sketch of the services 
of the Irish Brigade, in which most of the allusions in these and 
several of the following poems are explained. — Ed. 



THE SURPRISE OF CREMCNA. 151 

IV. 

Sarsfield is dead, yet no tears shed we — 
For he died in the arras of Victory, 
And his dying words shall edge the brand, 
When we chase the foe from our native land ! 



THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA. 

(1702.) 



From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode, 
And soft are the beds in his princely abode ; 
In billet and barrack the garrison sleep. 
And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep : 
'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze 
Of that mid- winter night on the flat Cremonese ; 
A fig for precaution ! — Prince Eugene sits down 
In winter cantonments round Mantua town ! 



Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain, 

Horse, foot, and dragoons are defiling amain 

"That flash!" said Prince Eugene, "Count Meivl, 

push on" — 
Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone. 



152 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

Proud mutters the prince — " That is Cassioli's sign : 
Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona '11 be mine — 
For Merci will open the gate of the Po, 
But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew !" 

III. 
Through gate, street, and square, with his keen cava- 
liers — 
A flood through a gulley — Count Merci careers — 
They ride v/ithout getting or giving a blow, 
Nor halt 'till they gaze on the gate of the Po — 
" Surrender the gate" — but a volley replied, 
For a handful of Irish are posted inside. 
By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come rather late, 
If he stay 'till Count Merci shall open that gate ! 

IV. 

But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians pour. 
And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore ; 
Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain — 
There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villeroy's rein — 
" A thousand pistoles and a regiment of herse — 
Release me, MacDonnell !" — they hold on their course. 
Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall. 
Prince Eugene's head-quarters are in the Town-hall ! 

V. 

Here and there, through the city, some readier band, 
For honour and safety, undauntedly stand. 
At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke 
[s Major O'Mahony, ^.erce as a Turk. 



IHE SURrRISE OF CREMONA. 153 

His sabre is flashing — the major is drest, - 

But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest! 

Yet they rush to the ramparts — the clocks have tolled 

ten — 
And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men. 

VI. 

" In on them," said Friedberg, — and Dillon is broke, 
Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak ; 
Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers go ; — 
But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow 
Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball, 
Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall — 
Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel. 
And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel. 

VII. 

Oh ! hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene ? 
In vain on Prince Vaudemout for succour you lean ! 
The bridge has been broken, and, mark ! how pell-meL 
Come riderless horses, and volley and yell ! — 
He's a veteran soldier — he clenches his hands, 
He springs on his horse, disengages his bands — 
He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid, 
He is chased through the gates by the Irish Brigade 



News, news, in Vienna ! — King Leopold's sad. 
News, news, in St. James's ! — King William is mad. 
News, news, in Versailles — " Let the Irish Brigade 
Be loyally honoured, and royally paid." 



154 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

News, news-, in old Ireland — high rises her pride, 
And high sounds her wail for her children who died, 
And deep is her prayer, — *' God send I may see 
" MacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me." 



THE FLOWER OF FINAE. 

I. 
Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin, 
A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing, 
While fair round its islets the small ripples play, 
But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae. 

n. 
Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning, 
She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, 
Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day. 
Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae. 

in. 
But who down the hill side than red deer runs fleeter ? 
And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her 1 
Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay. 
The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae ? 



THE FLOWER OF FINAE. 166 

IV. 

One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness; 
Ah ! why do they change on a sudden to sadness — 
He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay, 
He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. 

V. 

For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land, 

And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland ; 

He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, 

But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae. 

VI. 

He fought at Cremona — she hears of his story ; 
He fought at Cassano — she's proud of his glory, 
Yet sadly she sings Siubhail a ruin* all the day, 
" Oh, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae." 

vn. 
Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken 

hearted, 
Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has parted ; 
She sails with the " Wild Geese" to Flanders away, 
And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae. 

vin. 
Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging — 
Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging — 

* VuJgo, Shule aroon. 



156 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

Behind him the Cravats their sections display — 
Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae. 

IX. 

On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying 
Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, 
Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array ; 
And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae. 

X. 

In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, 
And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying ; 
That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray ; 
This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae. 



THE GIRL I LEFT BEfflND ME. 

Air — The girl I left behind me. 



The dames of France are fond and free, 

And Flemish lips are willing, 
And soft the maids of Italy, 

And Spanish eyes are thrilling ; 
Still, though I bask beneath their smile, 

Their chai-ms fail to bind me. 
And my heart flies back to Erin's isle, 

To the girl I left behind me. 



THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. 157 

n. 
For she's as fair as Shannon's side, 

And purer than its water, 
But slie refused to be my bride 

Though many a year I sought her ; 
Yet, since to France I sailed away, 

Her letters oft remind me 
That I promised never to gainsay 

The girl I left behind me. 

III. 
She says — " My own dear love, come home, 

My friends are rich and many, 
Or else abroad with you I'll roam 

A soldier stout as any ; 
If you'll not come, nor let me go, 

I'll think you have resigned me." 
My heart nigh broke when I answered — No ! 

To the girl I left behind me. 



For never shall my true love brave 

A life of war and toiling ; 
And never as a skulking slave 

I'll tread my native soil on ; 
But, were it free or to be freed. 

The battle's close would find me 
To Ireland bound — nor message need 

From the girl I left behind me. 
14 



168 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

CLARE'S DRAGOONS * 

Air — Viva la. 

I. 
When, on Ramillies' bloody field, 
The baffled French were forced to yield, 
The victor Saxon backward reeled 

Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons. 
The Flags, we conquered in that fray, 
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say, 
We'll win them company to-day. 

Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons. 

CHORUS. 

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong ! 
Viva la, for Ireland's right ! 
Viva la, in battle throng, 
For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright ! 

II. 
The brave old lord died near the fight, 
But, for each drop he lost that night, 
A Saxon cavalier shall bite 

The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons. 
For never, when our spurs were set, 
And never, when our sabres met. 
Could we the Saxon soldiers get 

To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons. 

* Vide Append" r. 



Clare's dragoons. 169 



CHORUS. 

Viva la, the New Brigade ! 

Viva la, the Old One, too ! 
Viva la, the rose shall fade, 

And the Shamrock shine for ever new ! 

in. 

Another Clare is here to lead, 
The worthy son of such a breed ; 
The French expect some famous deed, 

When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons. 
Our Colonel comes from Brian's race. 
His wounds are in his breast and face, 
The hearna baoghail* is still his place, 

The foremost of his bold Dragoons. 

CHORUS. 

Viva la, the New Brigade ! 

Viva la, the Old One, too ! 
Viva la, the rose shall fade, 

And the Shamrock shine for ever new ! 

IV. 

There's not a man in squadron here 
Was ever known to flinch or fear ; 
Though first in charge and last in rere, 
Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoong ; 

* Gap of danger. 



160 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

But, see ! we'll soon have work to do, 
To shame our boasts, or prove them true, 
For hither comes the English crew, 

To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons. 



CHORUS. 

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong ! 

Viva la, for Ireland's right ! 
Viva la, in battle throng, 

For a Spanish steed and sabre bright ! 



Oh ! comrades ! think how Ireland pines, 
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines, 
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines. 

And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons. 
Then bring your Green Flag to the sky, 
Be Limerick your battle-cry," 
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high. 

Around the track of Clare's Dracfoons! 



CHORUS. 

Viva la, the New Brigade ! 

Viva la, the Old One, too ! 
Viva la, the rose shall fade. 

And the Shamrock shine for ever new ! 



WHEN SOUTH ^NDS BLOW. 161 

WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW. 

Air — The gentle Maiden. 

I. 

Why sits the gentle maiden there, 

While surfing billows splash around? 
Why doth she southwards wildly stare, 

And sing, with such a fearful sound — 
" The Wild Geese fly where others walk ; 
The Wild Geese do what others talk— ^ 
The way is long from France, you know — 
He'll come at last when south winds blow." 

II. 
Oh ! softly was the maiden nurst 

In Castle Connell's lordly towers, 
Where Skellig's billows boil and burst, 

And, far above, Dunkerron towers : 
And she was noble as the hill — 
Yet battle-flags are nobler still : 
And she was graceful as the wave — 
Yet who would live a tranquil slave 1 

ni. 
And, so, her lover went to France, 

To serve the foe of Ireland's foe ; 
Yet deep he swore — " Whatever chance, 
" I'll come some day when sou th winds blow.** 
14* 



162 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

And prouder hopes he told beside, 
How she should be a prince's bride, 
How Louis would the Wild Geese* send, 
And Ireland's weary woes should end 



But tyrants quenched her father's hearth, 

And wrong- and absence warped her mind ; 
The gentle maid, of gentle birth. 

Is moaning madly to the wind — 
" He said he'd come, whate'er betide : 
He said I'd be a happy bride : 
Oh ! long the way and hard the foe — 
He'll come when south — when south winds blow !" 



THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE 

Air — Contented I am. 



The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set. 
And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet ; 

• The recruiting for the Brigade was carried on in the French ships 
which smuggled brandies, wines, silks, &c , to the western and south- 
western coasts. Their return cargoes were recruits for the Brigade, 
and were entered in their books as Wild Geese. Hence this became 
the common name in Ireland for the Irish serving in the Biigade. The 
recruiting was chiefly from Clare, Limerick, Cork, Kerry, and Galway 
^Author's Note. 



THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE. l6a 

The vet'ran arose, like an uplifted lance, 

Crying — " Comrades, a health to the monarch of 

France !" 
With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade, 
For King Louis is loved by The Irish Brigade. 



" A health to King James," and they bent as they 

quaffed, 
"Here's to George the Elector,''^ and fiercely they 

laughed, 
'' Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago, 
Where Shannon, and Barrow, and Blackwater flow ;" 
" God prosper Old Ireland," — you'd think them afraid, 
So pale grew the chiefs of The Irish Brigade. 

III. 
" But, surely, that light cannot come from our lamp ? 
And that noise — are they all getting drunk in the 

camp ?" 
" Hurrah ! boys, the morning of battle is come. 
And the generaWs beating on many a drum." 
So they rush from the revel to join the parade ; 
For the van is the right of The Irish Brigade. 



They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and true, 
And, though victors, they left on the field not a few ; 
And they, who survived, fought and drank as of yore, 
But the land of their heart's hope they never saw more ; 



164 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade, 
Lio the soldiers and chiefs of The Irish Briijade. 



I 



FONTENOY* 

(1745.) 

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column 

failed, 
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in 

vain assailed ; 
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking 

battery, 
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch 

auxiliary. 
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers 

burst, 
The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and 

dispersed. 
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious 

eye. 
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to 

try; 

• Vide Appendix. 



FONTENOT. 165 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride ! 
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at 
eventide. 

II. 
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, 
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at 

their head ; 
Steady they step a-down the slope — steady they climb 

the hill .; 
Steady they load — steady they fire, moving right on- 

w^ard still, 
Betvi'ixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace 

blast, 
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets 

showering fast ; 
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their 

course. 
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hos- 
tile force : 
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their 

ranks — 
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's 

ocean banks. 

m. 
More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush 

round ; 
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the 

ground ; 



166 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they 
marched and fired — 

Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. 

*' Push on, my household cavalry !" King Louis madly 
cried : 

To death they rush, but rude their shock — not una- 
venged they died. 

Oq through the camp the column trod — King Louis 
turns his rein : 

" Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, " the Irish troops 
remain ;" 

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, 

Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and 
true. 

IV. 

" Lord Clare," he says, " you have your wish, there are 
your Saxon foes !" 

The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes ! 

How fierce the look thgse exiles wear, who're wont to 
be so gay. 

The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in then* hearts 
to-day — 

The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ 
could dry, 

Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their wo- 
men's parting cry, 

Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their coun- 
try overthrown, — 

Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on him 
a'one. 



FONTENOY. 167 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, 
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles 
were. 

V. 

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he com- 
mands, 

" Fix bay'nets" — " Charge," — Like mountain storm, 
rush on these fiery bands ! 

Thin is the English column now, and faint their 
volleys grow. 

Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a 
gallant show. 

They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle- 
wind — 

Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like rocks, the men 
behind ! 

One volley crashes from their line, when, through the 
surging smoke. 

With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong 
Irish broke. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza ! 

" Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the 
Sacsanach !" 

VI. 

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's 

pang. 
Eight up against the English Ime the Irish exilea 

sprang : 



168 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are 

filled with gore ; 
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled 

flags they tore ; 
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, 

rallied, staggered, fled — 
The green hill side is matted close with dying and with 

dead. 
Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideoua 

wrack, 
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, 
With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought 

and won ! 



v>i* 



THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION. 



(1782.) 



The church of Dungannon is full to the door, 
And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor, 
While helmet and shako are ranged all along. 
Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng. 
In the front of the altar no minister stands. 
But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands ; 



DUNGANNON CONVENTION. 169 

And though solemn the looks and the voices around. 
You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound. 
Say ! what do they hear in the temple of prayer ? 
Oh ! why in the fold has the lion his lair ? 

II. 
Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle, 
By English oppression, and falsehood, and guile ? 
Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered, 
To guard it for England the North volunteered. 
From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast — 
Still they stood to their guns when the danger had past, 
For the voice of America came o'er the wave. 
Crying — Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the slave !^ 
Indignation and shame through their regiments speed, 
They have arms in their hands, and what more do they 
need? 

in. 
O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are spread, 
The cities of Leinster resound to their tread, 
The vallies of Munster with ardour are stirred, 
And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles have 

heard ; 
A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere — 
For — forbidden the arms of freemen to bear — 
Yet foeman and friend are full sure, if need be, 
The slave for his country will stand by the free. 
By green flags supported, the Orange flags wave, 
And the soldier half tarns to unfetter the slave ! 
15 



1 



170 HISTORICAL BALLAa)S. 

IV. 

More honoured that church of Dungannon is now, 

Than when at its altar communicants bow ; 

More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayer, 

Are the rites and the thoughts of the warriors there ; 

In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore : 

" We've suffered too long, and we'll suffer no more — 

Unconquered by Force, we were vanquished by Fraud 

And now, in God's temple, we vow unto God, 

That never again shall the Englishman bind 

His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our mind." 

V. 

The church of Dungannon is empty once more — 

No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor. 

But the councils of England are fluttered to see, 

In the cause of their country, the Irish agree ; 

So they give as a boon what they dare not withhold, 

And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old, 

With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her own. 

And an army to fight for the people and throne. 

But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fears 

She surrender the guns of her brave Volunteers ! 



SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782. 171 

SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782. 

Air — Boyne Water. 

I. 
Hurrah ! 'tis done — our freedom's won— 

Hurrah for the Volunteers ! 
No laws we own, but those alone 

Of our Commons, King, and Peers. 
The chain is broke — the Saxon yoke 

From off our neck is taken; 
Ireland awoke — Dungannon spoke — 

With fear was England shaken. 



When Grattan rose, none dared oppose 

The claim he made for freedom : 
They knew our swords, to back his words, 

Were ready, did he need them. 
Then let us raise, to Grattan's praise, 

A proud and joyous anthem ; 
And wealth, and grace, and length of days, 

May God, in mercy grant him ! 



Bless Harry Flood, who nobly stood 
By us, through gloomy years ! 

Bless Charlemont, the brave and good, 
The Chief of the Volunteers ! 



172 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

The Ncxth began ; the North held on 
The strife for native land ; 

Till Ireland rose, and cowed her foes- 
God bless the Northern land ! 

IV. 

And bless the men of patriot pen — 

Swift, Molyneux, and Lucas ; 
Bless sword and gun, which " Free Trade" won— • 

Bless God ! who ne'er forsook us ! 
And long may last, the friendship fast, 

Which binds us all together ; 
While we agree, our foes shall flee 

Like clouds in stormy weather. 

V. 

Remember still, through good and ill, 

How vain were prayers and tears — 
How vain were words, till flashed the swords 

Of the Irish Volunteers. 
By arms we've got the rights we sought 

Through long and wretched years — 
Hurrah ! 'tis done, our freedom's won — 

Hurrah for the Volunteers ! 



I 



THE MEN OF 'eIGHTY-TWO. 173 

THE MEN OF 'EIGHTY-TWO. 

Am — An Cruiscrin Ldn. 



To rend a cruel chain, 

To end a foreign reign, 
The swords of the Volunteers were drawn. 

And instant from th^ir sway, 

Oppression fled away ; 
So we'll drink them in a cruisgin ldn, ldn, ldn% 
We'll drink them in a cruisgin ldn ! 

n. 

Within that host were seen 
The Orange, Blue, and Green— 

The Bishop for it's coat left his lawn— 
The peasant and the lord 
Ranked in with one accord, 

Like brothers at a cruisgin ldn, ldn, Idn^ 

like brothers at a cruisgin ldn ! 



m. 

With liberty there came 
Wit, eloquence, and fame ; 
Our feuds went like mists from the dawn , 
15* 



174 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

Old bigotry disdained — ■ 
Old privilege retained — 
Oh ! sages, fill a cruisgin Idn^ Idn, /an, 
And, boys, fill up a cruisgin Idn ! 



The trader's coffers filled. 
The barren lands were tilled, 

Our ships on the waters thick as spawn- 
Prosperity broke forth. 
Like summer in the north — 

Ye merchants ! fill a cruisgin Idn, Idn, Idn, 

Ye farmers ! fill a cruisgin Idn ! 



The memory of that day 
Shall never pass away. 
The' it's fame shall be yet outshone ; 
We'll grave it on our shrines, 
We'll shout it in our Imes — 
Old Ireland ! fill a cruisgin Idn, Idn, Idn, 
Young Ireland 1 fill a cruisgin Idn ! 



And drink — The Volunteers, 
Their generals, and seers, 
Their gallantry, their genius, and their brawn 
With water, or with wme — 
The draught is but a sign — 
The purpose fills the cruisgin Idn, Idn, Idn, 
This purpose fills the cruisgin Idn ! 



NATIVE SWORDS. 176 



That ere Old Ireland goes, 

And while Young Ireland glows, 
The swords of our sii-es be girt on, 

And loyally renew 

The work of 'Eighty-two— 
Oh! gentlemen — a cruisgin Idn, Idrij Zdrij 
Our freedom ! in a cruis^rin Idn ! 



NATIVE SWORDS. 

(a volunteer song.— 1st July, 1792.) 

Air — Boyne Water. 

We've bent too long to braggart wrong, 

While force our prayers derided ; 
We've fought too long, ourselves among, 

By knaves and priests divided ; 
United now, no more we'll bow, 

Foul faction, we discard it ; 
And now, thank God ! our native sod 

Has Native Swords to guard it. 



176 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

IL 

Like rivers, which, o'er valleys rich, 

Bring ruin in their water, 
On native land, a native hand 

Flung foreign fraud and slaughter. 
From Dermod's crime to Tudor's time 

Our clans were our perdition ; 
Religion's name, since then, became 

Our pretext for division. 



But, worse than all, with Lim'rick's fall 

Our valour seem'd to perish ; 
Or o'er the main, in France and Spain, 

For bootless vengeance flourish. 
The peasant, here, grew pale for fear 

He'd suffer for our glory, 
While France sang joy for Fontenoy, 

And Europe hymned our story. 



3ut, now, no clan, nor factious plan, 

The East and West can sunder — 
Why Ulster e'er should Munster fear. 

Can only wake our wonder. 
Religion's crost, when union's lost, 

And " royal gifts " retard it ; 
But now, thank God ! our native sod 

Has Native Swords to oruard it . 



TONE S GRAVE. 177 



TONE'S GRAVE. 

I. 

In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave, 
' And wildly along it the winter winds rave ; 

Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there, 
^ When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare, 



n. 

Once I lay on that sod — it lies over Wolfe Tone — 
And I thought how he perished in prison alone. 
His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed — 
" Oh, bitter," I said, " is the patriot's meed ; 



III. 
For in him the heart of a woman combined 
With a heroic life, and a governing mind — 
A martyr for Ireland — his grave has no stone — 
His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown. 



I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread 
Of a band, who came into the home of the dead ; 
They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone, 
And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe 
Tone. 



178 HISTORICAL BALLADS. 



There were students and peasants, the wise and tho 

brave, 
And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave. 
And children who thought me hard-hearted ; for they, 
On that sanctified sod were forbidden to play. 

VI. 

But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said, 
" We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is 

laid, 
And we're going to raise him a monument, too — 
A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true." 



My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand. 
And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band ; 
" Sweet ! sweet ! 'tis to find that such faith can remain 
To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain.** 



In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave, 
And freely around it let winter winds rave — 
Far better they suit him — the ruin and gloom, — 
Till Irelanb, a Nation, can build him a Tomb, 



PART V. 



" Nationality is nc longer an unmeaning or despised name among 
us. It is welcomed by the higher ranks, it is the inspiration of the 
bold, and the hope of the people. It is the summary name for many 
things. It seeks a Literature made by Irishmen, and coloured by our 
scenery, manners, and character. It desires to see Art applied to ex- 
press Irish thoughts and belief. It would make our Music sound in 
every parish at twilight, our Pictures sprinkle the walls of every 
house, and our Poetry and History sit at every hearth. 

" It would thus create a race of men full of a more intensely Irish 
character and knowledge, and to that race it would give Ireland. It 
would give them the seas of Ireland to sweep with their nets and launch / 

on with their navy ; the harbours of Ireland, to receive a greater com- 
merce than any island in the world ; the soil of Ireland to live on, by 
more millions than starve here now ; the fame of Ireland to enhance 
by their genius and valour ; the Independence of Ireland to guard b* 
laws and arms." Davis's Essays. 



NATIONALITY. 



A nation's voice, a nation's voice- 
It is a solemn thing ! 

It bids the bondage-sick rejoice — ■ 
'Tis stronger than a king. 



180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

'Tis like the light of many stars, 
The sound of many waves ; 

Which brightly look through prison-bars ; 
And sweetly sound in caves. 

Yet is it noblest, godliest known. 

When righteous triumph swells its tone. 



A nation's flag, a nation's flag — 

If wickedly unrolled. 
May foes in adverse battle drag 

Its every fold from fold. 
But, in the cause of Liberty, 

Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell ; 
Guard it till Death or Victory — 

Look you, you guard it well ! 
No saint or king has tomb so proud, 
As he whose flag becomes his shroud. 



A nation's right, a nation's right — 

God gave it, and gave, too, 
A nation's sword, a nation's might, 

Danger to guard it through. 
'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke, 

'Tis just and equal laws, 
Which deal unto the humblest folk, 

As in a noble's cause. 
On nations fixed in right and truth, 
God would bestow eternal ycuth. 



SELF-RELIANCE. 181 

TV. 

May Ireland's voice be ever heard 

Amid the world's applause ! 
And never be her flag-staff stirred, 

But in an honest cause ! 
May Freedom be her very breath, 

Be Justice ever dear ; 
And never an ennobled death 

May son of Ireland fear ! 
So the Lord God will ever smile, 
With guardian grace, upon our isle. 



SELF-RELIANCE. 



Though savage force and subtle schemes, 

And alien rule, through ages lasting. 
Have swept your land like lava streams, 

Its wealth, and name, and nature blasting, 
Rot not, therefore, in dull despair. 

Nor moan at destiny in far lands : 
Face not your foe with bosom J;)are, 

Nor hide your chains in pleasAire's garlands, 
The wise man arms to comba^ wrong, 

The brave man clears a den of lions, 
16 



182 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The true man spurns the Helot's song; 
The freeman's friend is Self-Reliance ! 



Though France, that gave your exiles bread, 

Your priests a home, your hopes a station 
Or that young land, where first was spread 

The starry flag of Liberation, — 
Should heed your wrongs some future day, 

And send you voice or sword to plead 'em, 
With helpful love their help repay. 

But trust not even to them for Freedom. 
A Nation freed by foreign aid 

Is but a corpse by wanton science 
Convulsed like life, then flung to fade — 

The life itself is Self-Reliance ! 

III. 
Oh ! see your quailing tyrant run 

To courteous lies, and Roman agents ; 
His terror, lest Dungannon's sun 

Should rise again with riper radiance. 
Oh ! hark the Freeman's welcome cheer, 

And hark your brother sufferers sobbing ; 
Oh ! mark the universe grow clear. 

And mark your spirit's royal throbbing, — 
'Tis Freedom's God that sends such signs, 

As pledges of his blest alliance; 
He gives brigiit hopes to brave designs, 

And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance ! 



SWEET AND SAD. 183 

IV. 

Then, flung alone, or hand-in-hand, 

In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn ; 
In lowly toil, or high command, 

In social hall, or charging column ; 
In tempting wealth, and trying woe, 

In struggling with a mob's dictation ; 
In bearing back a foreign foe, 

In training up a troubled nation : 
Still hold to Truth, abound in Love, 

Refusing every base compliance — 
Your Praise within, your Prize above. 

And live and die in Self-Reliance ! 



SWEET AND SAD. 

A PRISON SERMON. 



I. 

'Tis sweet to climb the mountain's crest. 
And run, like deer-hound, down its breast ; 
'Tis sweet to snuff the taintless air. 
And sweep the sea with haughty stare : 
And, sad it is, when iron bars 
Keep watch between you and the stars ; 



184' MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And sad to find your footstep stayed 
By prison-wall and palisade : 
But 'twere better be 

A prisoner for ever, 
With no destiny 

To do, or to endeavour ; 
Better life to spend 

A martyr or confessor, 
Than in silence bend 

To alien and oppressor. 



*Tis sweet to rule an ample realm, 
Through weal and woe to hold the helm ; 
And sweet to strew, with plenteous hand. 
Strength, health, and beauty, round your land; 
And sad it is to be unprized. 
While dotards rule, unrecognised ; 
And sad your little ones to see 
Writhe in the gripe of poverty : 
But 'twere better pine 

In rags and gnawing hunger, 
While around you whine 

Your elder and your younger ; 
Better lie in pain. 

And rise in pain to-morrow, 
Than o'er millions reign, 
While those millions sorrow. 



SWEET AND SAD. 186 

III. 

'Tis sweet to own a quiet hearth, 
Begh't by constancy and mirth ; 
'Twere sweet to feel your dying clasp 
Returned by friendship's steady grasp 
And sad it is, to spend your life, 
Like sea-bird in the ceaseless strife— 
Your lullaby the ocean's roar, 
Your resting-place a foreign shore : 
But 'twere better live. 

Like ship caught by Lofoden, 
Than your spirit give 

To be by chains corroden : 
Best of all to yield 

Your latest breath, when lying 
On a victor field. 

With the green flag flying ! 



IV. 

Human joy and human sorrow. 
Light or shade from conscience borrow ; 
The tyrant's crown is lined with flame, 
Life never paid the coward's shame: 
The miser's lock is never sure. 
The traitor's home is never pure ; 
While seraphs guard, and cherubs tend 
The good man's life and brave man's end ; 
But their fondest care 
Is the patriot's prison, 
16 



186 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

H3niining through its air — 
" Freedom hath arisen, 

Oft from statesmen's strife, 
Oft from battle's flashes, 

Oft from hero's life, 

Oftenest from his ashes !" 



THE BURIAL. * 

Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hun- 

dred village shrines ? 
Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long 

and ordered lines ? 
With tear and sigh they're passing by, — the matron 

and the maid- 
Has a hero died — is a nation's pride in that cold coffin 

laid? 
With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go 

tramping on — 
Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath 

till the rites are done ? 

♦ Written on the funeral of the Rev. P. J. Tyrrell, P.P. of Lusk ; 
one of those indicted with O'Counell in the government prosecutioni 
of 1843.- -Ed. 



THE BURIAL. 187 

THE CHAUNT. 

" Ululu ! ululu I high on the wind, 

" There's a home for the slave where no fetters can 

bind. 
" Woe, woe to his slayers" — comes wildly along, 
With the trampling of feet and the funeral song. 

And now more clear 
It swells on the ear ; 
Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear. 

" Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead. 
" Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head ; 
(^"" And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere appearing, 
" And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin. 
" Ululu ! ululu ! soft fall the dew 
" On the feet and the head of the martyred and true.'* 

For awhile they tread 
In silence dread — 
^^. Then muttering and moaning go the crowd. 
Surging and swaying like mountain cloud, 
And again the wail comes fearfully loud. 

THE CHAUNT. 

" UImIu ! ululu ! kind was his heart ! 
" Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part. 
'' The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord, 
" His pilgrimage over, he has his reward. 



188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

*' By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeUng, 

" To God with the raised cross appealing — 

*' He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray, 

** And the sins of the dying seem passing away. 



" In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary, 

" Our constant consoler, he never grew weary ; 

" But he's gone to his rest, 

" And he's now with the blest, 

" Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest — 

" Ululu I ululu ! wail for the dead ! 

" Ululu ! ululu ! here is his bed." 



Short was the ritual, simple the prayer, 
Deep was the silence and every head bare ; 
The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around, 
•Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground. 
Kneeling and motionless — " Dust unto dust." 
" He died as becometh the faithful and just — 
" Placing in God his reliance and trust ;" 
Kneeling and motionless — " ashes to ashes" — 
Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes ; 
Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray, 
But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they— 
Stern and standing — oh ! look on them now. 
Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow ; 
like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow : 



THE BURIAL. 189 

THE VOW. 

♦' We have bent and borne, though we saw him lorn 
from his home by the tyrant's crew — 

^ And we bent and bore, when he came once more, 
though suffering had pierced him through : 

" And now he is laid beyond our aid, because to Ire- 
land true — 

" A martyred man — the tyrant's ban, the pious patriot 
slew. 

"And shall we bear and bend for ever, 
" And shall no time our bondage sever, 
" And shall we kneel, but battle never, 

" For our own soil ? 

" And shall our tyrants safely reign 

" On thrones built up of slaves and slain, 

" And nought to us and ours remain, 

" But chains and toil. 

« No ! round this grave our oath we plight, 
" To watch, and labour, and unite, 
" Till banded be the nation's might— 

" It's spirit steeled, 

« And then collecting all our force, 
« We'll cross oppression in its course, 
" And die — or all our rights enforce, 

" On battle field." 
16* 



190 MISCELLANEOUS FOEMS. 

Like an ebbing sea that will come again, 
Slowly retired that host of men ; 
Methinks they'll keep some other day 
The oath they swore on the martyr's clay. 



WE MUST NOT FAIL. 



We must not fail, we must not fail, 
However fraud or force assail ; 
By honour, pride, and policy. 
By Heaven itself ! — we must be free. 



Time had already thinned our chain, 
Time would have dulled our sense of pain ; 
By service long, and suppliance vile, 
We might have won our owner's smile. 



We spurned the thought, our prison burst, 
And dared the despot to the worst ; 
Renewed the strife of centuries, 
And fluns: our banner to the breeze. 



WE MUST NOT FAIL. 191 

IV. 

We called the ends of earth to view 

The gallant deeds we swore to do ; 

They knew us wronged, they knew us brave, 

And, all we asked, they freely gave. 

V. 

We took the starving peasant's mite 
To aid in winning back his right, 
We took the priceless trust of youth ; 
Their freedom must redeem our truth. 



We promised loud, and boasted high, 
" To break our country's chains, or die ;" 
And, should we quail, that country's name 
Will be the synonyme of shame. 

vri. 

Earth is not deep enough to hide 
The coward slave who shrinks aside ; 
Hell is not hot enough to scathe 
The ruffian wretch who breaks his faith. 

VIIT. 

But — calm, my soul ! — we promised true 
Her destined work our land shall do ; 
Thought, courage, patience will prevail 1 
We shall not fail — we shall not fail ! 



192 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

O'CONNELL'S STATUE. 

(lines to hogan.) 

Chisel the likeness of The Chief, 

Not in gaiety, nor grief; 

Change not by your art to stone, 
U Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan. 
u Dark her tale, and none can tell 

It's fearful chronicle so well. 

Her frame is bent — her wounds are deei>— 

Who, like him, her woes can weep ? 

He can be gentle as a bride, 

While none can rule with kinglier pride. 

Calm to hear, and wise to prove. 

Yet gay as lark in soaring love. 

Well it were posterity 

Should have some image of his glee ; 

That easy humour, blossoming 

Like the thousand flowers of spring I 

Glorious the marble which could show 

His bursting sympathy for woe, 

Could catch -the pathos, flowing wild, 

Like mother's milk to craving child. 

And oh ! how princely were the art 
Could mould his mien, or tell his heart 
When sitting sole on Tara's hill, 
While hung a million on his will ! 



OCONNELLS STATUE. 193 

Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief. 
Chisel the image of our Chief; 
Nor even in that haughty hour 
When a nation owned his power. 

But would you by your art unroll 
His own, and Ireland's secret soul. 
And give to other times to scan 
The greatest greatness of the man ? 
Fierce defiance let him be 
Hurling at our enemy. — 
From a base as fair and sure 
As our love is true and pure, 
Let his statue rise as tall 
And firm as a castle wall ; 
On his broad brow let there be •/ 
A type of Ireland's history ; 
Pious, generous, deep, and warm, 
Strong and changeful as a storm ; 
Let whole centuries of wrong 
Upon his recollection throng — 
Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile, 
Tudor's wrath, and Stuart's guile, 
And iron Strafford's tiger jaws. 
And brutal Brunswick's penal laws ; 
Not forgetting Saxon faith, 
Not forgetting Norman scaith, 
Not forgetting William's word, 
Not forgetting Cromwell's sword. 
Let the Union's fetter vile — 
17 



194 MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS. 

The shame and ruin of our isle — 
Let the blood of 'Ninety-Eight 
And our present blighting fate- 
Let the poor mechanic's lot, 
And the peasant's ruined cot,- 
Plundered wealth and glory flown, 
Ancient honors overthrown — 
Let trampled altar, rifled urn, 
Knit his look to purpose stern. 
Mould all this into one thought, 
Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught; 
Still let our glories through it gleam, 
Like fair flowers through a flooded stream. 
Or like a flashing wave at night, 
Bright, — 'mid the solemn darkness bright. 
Let the memory of old days 
Shine through the statesman's anxious face- 
Dathi's pd'wer, and Brian's fame, 
And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame, 
And the spirit of Red Hugh, 
And the pride of Eighty-two. 
And the victories he won. 
And the hope that leads him on ! 

Let whole armies seem to fly 

From his threatening hand and eye ; 
f Be the strength of all the land 
' Like a falchion in his hand. 

And be his gesture sternly grand. 

A braggart tyrant swore to smite 



THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. 195 

A people struggling for their right— 
O'Connell dared him to the field, 
Content to die, but never yield. 
Fancy such a soul as his, 
In a moment such as this. 
Like cataract, or foammg tide, 
Or army charging in its pride. 
Thus he spoke, and thus he stood, 
Proffering in our cause his blood. 
Thus his country loves hun best- 
To image this is your behest. 
Chisel thus, and thus alone. 
If to man you'd change the stone. 



i 
THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED.* 

Air — Irish Molly O ! 

I. 
Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the 

Green, 
They rose in rude but fierce array, vsdth sabre, pike, 

and sciarij 

• This and the three following pieces are properly street ballads^ 
The reader must not expect depth or finish in verses of this descrip 
lion, written for a temporary ; urpose.— Ed. 



196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead, 
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English 
Red. 



u. 

But in the end, throughout the land, the shameful sight 

was seen — 
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish 

Green ; 
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their 

spirits fled, 
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the 

English Red. 

III. 
And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the 

Green, 
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest 

screen ; 
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were 

fed. 
That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er 

the Red. 

IV. 

Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone 

sunk serene — 
Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the 

Green ; 



THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. 197 

And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield 

nobly bled — 
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the 

Red. 

V. 

So, when the strife began again, our darling Irish 

Green 
Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red 

was seen ; 
Yet still we hold our fearless course, for something in 

us said, 
" Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above 

the Red." 

VI. 

And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive 

to glean, 
That we may pull the English Red below the Irish 

Green, 
And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling plenty 

spread 
Above the land once dark with blood — the Green above 

the Red! 

vn. 

The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish 

Green, 
And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and 

mean; 

17* 



198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But yet, by Heavens ! he'll sooner raise his victims 

from the dead 
Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to 
\ the Red ! 

vin. 
We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those 

who lean 
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or 

queen; 
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to 

shed 
Once and for ever more to raise the Green above the 

Red! 



TBE VOW OF TIPPERARY. 

Air — Tipper ary. 



From Carrick streets to Shannon shore, 
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary, 

From Longford Pass to Gaillte M6r, 
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary. 



A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS. 199 

II. 

Too long we fought for Britain's cause, 
And of our blood were never chary ; 

She paid us back with tyrant laws, 
And thinned The Homes of Tipperary, 



Too long, with rash and suagle arm, 
The peasant strove to guard his eyrie, 

Till Irish blood bedewed each farm, 
And Ireland wept for Tipperary. 

IV. 

But never more we'll lift a hand — 
We swear by God and Virgin Mary ! 

Except in war for Native Land, 
And that's The Vow of Tipperary ! 



A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS. 



" Base Bog-trotters," says the Times, 
" Brown with mud, and black with crimes, 
Turf and lumpers dig betimes 

(We grant you need 'em), 
But never lift your heads sublime, 
■ Nor talk of Freedom." 



200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Yet, Bog-trotters, sirs, be sure, 
Are strong to do, and to endui*e, 
Men whose blows are hard to cure- 
Brigands ! what's in ye, 
That the fierce man of the moor 
Can't stand again ye ? 



The common drains in Mushra moss 
Are wider than a castle fosse, 
Connaught swamps are hard to cross, 

And histories boast 
That Allen's Bog has caused the loss 

Of many a host. 



Oh ! were you in an Irish bog, 
Full of pikes, and scarce of prog. 
You'd wish your Times-ship was incog. 

Or far away. 
Though Saxons, thick as London fog, 

Around you lay. 



A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS. 201 



A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS. 

I. 

The Mail says, that Hanover's King 
Twenty Thousand men will bring, 
And make the " base bog-trotters " sing 

A pillileu ; 
And that O'Connell high shall swing, 

And others too. 

II. 
There is a tale of Athens told. 
Worth at least its weight in gold 
To fellows of King Ernest's mould 

(The royal rover), 
Who think men may be bought and sold, 

Or ridden over. 

ui. 
Darius (an imperial wretch, 
A Persian Ernest, or Jack Ketch,) 
Bid his knaves from Athens fetch 

" Earth and water," 
Or else the heralds' necks he'd stretch, 

And Athens slaughter. 

IV. 

The Athenians threw them in a well, 
And left them there to help themsel'. 



202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And when his armies came, pell-mell, 
They tore his banners, 

And sent his slaves in shoals to hell, 
To mend their manners. 



Let those who bring and those who send 
Hanoverians, comprehend 
Persian-like may be their end, 

And the '• bog-trotter " 
May drown their knaves, their banners rend, 

Their armies slaughter. 



A SCENE IN THE SOUTH 



I WAS walking along in a pleasant place, 

In the county Tipperary ; 
The scene smiled as happy as the holy face 
Of the Blessed Virgin Mary ; 
And the trees were proud, and the sward was green, 
And the birds sang loud in the leafy scene. 

II. 
Yet somehow I felt strange, and soon I telt sad. 
And then I felt very lonely ; 



A SCENE IN THE SOUTH. 203 

I pondered in vain why I was not glad, 
In a place meant for pleasure only : 
For I thought that grief had never been there, 
And that sin would as lief to heaven repair. 



m. 
And a train of spirits seemed passing me by. 

The air grew as heavy as lead ; 
I looked for a cabin, yet none could I spy 
In the pastures about me spread ; 
Yet each field seemed made for a peasant's cot, 
And I felt dismayed when I saw them not. 

IV. 

As I stayed on the field, I saw — Oh, my God ! 

The marks where a cabin had been : 
Through the midst of the fields, some feet of the sod 
Were coarser and far less green. 
And three or four trees in the centre stood. 
But they seemed to freeze in their solitude. 



Surely there was the road that led to the cot. 

For it ends just beneath the trees, 
And the trees like mourners are watching the spot, 
And cronauning with the breeze ; 
And their stems are bare with children's play, 
But the children — where, oh ! where are they ? 



204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

VI. 

An old man unnoticed had come to my side, 

His hand in my arm linking — 
A reverend man, without haste or pride — 

And he said : — " I know what you're thinking ; 
" A cabin stood once underneath the trees, 
■' Full of kindly ones — ^but alas ! for these ! 

VII. 

" A loving old couple, and tho' somewhat poor, 

" Their children had leisure to play ; 
" And the piper, and stranger, and beggar were sure 
"To bless them in going away ; 
" But the typhus came, and the agent too — 
" Ah ! need I name the worst of the two ? 

VIII. 

" Their cot was unroofed, yet they strove to hide 

" In its walls till the fever was passed ; 
" Their crime was found out, and the cold ditch side 
" Was their hospital at last : 
" Slowly they went to poorhouse and grave, 
" But the Lord they bent to, their souls will save. 

IX. 

" And thro' many a field you passed, and will pass, 

" In this lordling's ' cleared' demesne, 
" Where households as happy were once — ^but, alas 
"They too are scattered or slain." 
Then he pressed my hand, and he went away; 
I could not stand, so I knelt to prav • 



1 



WILLIAM TELL. 206 

X. 

" God of justice !" I sighed, " send your spirit down 

" On these lords so cruel and proud, 
" And soften their hearts and relax their frown, 
" Or else" I cried aloud — 
*' Vouchsafe thy strength to the peasant's hand 
" To drive them at length from off the land!"* 



WILLIAM TELL AND THE GENIUS OP 
SWITZERLAND.! 

I. 

Tell. — You have no fears, 
My native land ! 
Then dry your tears, 
And draw your brand. 

• The scene is a mere actual landscape which I saw. — Author's 
Note. 

t Just before the insurrection which expelled the Austrians, Tell 
and some of his brother conspirators spent a night on the shore of the 
Underwalde Lake, consulting for liberty ; and while they were thus 
engaged, the genius of Switzerland appeared to them, and she was 
armed, but weeping. " Why weep you, mother?" said Tell ; and she 
answered, " I see dead patriots, and hear their orphans wailing ;" — 
and he said again to her, " The tyrant kills us with his prisons and 
taxes, and poisons our air with his presence ; war-death is better ;" 
and she said, " It is better" — and the cloud passed trom her brow, and 
she gave him a spear and bade him conquer. — Author's Note. 

18 



206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

A million made a vow 
To free you. — Wherefore, now, 
Tears again, my native land ? 

n. 
Genius. — I weep not from doubt, 
I, weep not for dread ; 
There's strength in your shout, 
And trust in your tread. 
I weep, for 1 look for the coming dead, 

Who for Liberty's cause shall die ; 
And I hear a wail from the widow's bed 

Come mixed with our triumph-cry. 
Though dire my woes, yet how can I 
Be calm when 1 know such suffering's nigh ' 

III. 
Tell. — Death comes to all, 
My native land ! 
Weep not their fall — 
A glorious band ! 
Famine and slavery 
Slaughter more cruelly 
Than Battle's blood-covered hand ! 

IV. 

Genius. — Yes, and all glory 

Shall honour their grave, 
With shrine, song, and story, 
Denied to the slave. 



THE EXILE. 207 

Thus pride shall so mingle with sorrow, 
Their wives half their weeping will stay ; 

And their sons long to tempt on the morrow 
The death they encounter to-day. 

Then away, sons, to battle away ! 

Draw the sword, lift the flag, and away I 



THE EXILE. 

(paraphrased from the FRENCH.) 
I. 

I've passed through the nations unheeded, unknown ; 
Though all looked upon me, none called me their own. 
I shared not their laughter — they cared not my moan— » 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 



At eve, when the smoke from some cottage uprose, 
How happy I've thought, at the weary day's close. 
With his dearest around, must the peasant repose ; 
But, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 

III. 
Where hasten those clouds 1 to the land or the sea — 
Driven on by the tempest, poor exiles, like me ? 
^Vhat matter to either where either shall flee ? 

For, ah! the poor exile is always alone. 



208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

IV. 

Those trees they are beauteous — those flowers they are 

fair; 
But no trees and no flowers of ray country are there. 
They speak not unto me— they heed not my care ; 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 

V. 

That brook murmurs softly its way through the plain ; 
But the brooks of my childhood had not the same strain. 
It reminds me of nothing — it murmurs in vain ; 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 

VI. 

Sweet are those songs, but their sweetness or sorrow 
No charm from the songs of my infancy borrow, 
I hear them to-day and forget them to-morrow ; 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 

VII. 

They've asked me, " Why weep you ?" I've told them 

my woe — 
They listed my words, as the rocks feel the snow. 
No sympathy bound us ; how could their tears flow ? 
For, sure the poor exile is always alone. 



When soft on their chosen the young maidens smile, 
Like the dawn of the morn on Erin's dear isle. 
With no love-smile to cheer me, I look on the while ; 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 



MY HOME. 209 

IX. 

Like boughs round the tree are those babes round their 

mother, 
And these friends like its roots, clasp and grow to each 

other ; 
But, none call me child, and none call me brother; 
For, ah ! the poor exile is ever alone. 

X. 
Wives never clasp, and friends never smile, 
Mothers ne'er fondle, nor maidens beguile ; 
And happiness dwells not, except in our isle, — 
And so the poor exile is always alone. 



Poor exile, cease grieving, for all are like you — 
Weeping the banished, the lovely, and true. 
Our country is Heaven — 'twill welcome you, too ; 
And cherish the exile, no longer alone ! 



MY HOME. 

A DREAM. 



I HAVE dreamt of a home — a happy home — 
The ficklest from it would not care to roam : 
'Twas a cottage home on native ground, 
Where all things glorious clustered round— 

18* ' 



210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

For highland glen and lowland plain 
Met within that small demesne. 

In sight is a tarn, with cliffs of fear, 
Where the eagle defies the mountaineer, 
A.nd the, cataract leaps in mad career, 
A.nd through oak and holly roam the deer. 
On its brink is a ruined castle, stern, — 
The mountains are crowned with rath and cam^ 
Robed with heather, and bossed with stone, 
And belted with a pine wood lone. 

Thro' that mighty gap in the mountain chain, 

Oft, like rivers after rain. 

Poured our clans on the conquered plain. 

And there, upon their harassed rear, 

Oft pressed the Norman's bloody spear ; 

Men call it " the pass of the leaping deer." 

Wild is the region, yet gentle the spot — 

As you look on the roses, the rocks are forgot ; 

For garden gay, and primrose lawn 

Peep through the rocks, as thro' night comes dawa 

And see, by that burn the children play ; 

In that valley the village maidens stray, 

Listing the thrush and the robin's lay, 

Listing the burn sigh back to the breeze, 

And hoping — guess whom ? 'mong the thorn trees. 

Not yet, dear girls — on the uplands green 

Shepherds and flocks may still be seen. 



MY HOME. 211 

Freemen's toils, with fruit and grain, 
The valley fill, and clothe the plain. 
There's the health which labour yields- 
Labour tilling its own fields. 
Freed at length from stranger lord — 
From his frown, or his reward — 
Each the owner of his land, 
Plenty springs beneath his hand. 

Meet these men on land or sea-^ 

Meet them in council, war, or glee ; 

Voice, glance, and mien, bespeak them free. 

Welcome greets you at their hearth ; 

Reverent they to age and worth ; 

Yet prone to jest and full of mirth. 

Fond of song, and dance, and crowd *— 

Of harp, and pipe, and laughter loud ; 

Their lay of love is low and bland. 

Their wail for death is wild and grand ; 

Awful and lovely their song of flame, 

When they clash the chords in their country's name. 

They seek no courts, and own no sway, 

Save the counsels of their elders grey ; 

For holy love, and homely faith, 

Rule their hearts in life and death. 

Yet their rifles would flash, and their sabres smite, 

And their pike-stafFs redden in the fight, 

And young and old be swept away. 

Ere the stranger in their land should sway. 

• Correctly cruit, the Irish name for the violin. — Author's Note 



212 MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS. 

But the setting sun, ere he sink in the sea, 
Flushes and flashes o'er crag and tree, 
Kisses the clouds with crimson sheen, 
And sheets with gold the ocean's green. 
Where the stately frigate lies in the bay. 
The friendly fleet of the Frenchman lay. 
Yonder creek, and yonder shore 
Echoed then the battle's roar ; 

Where, on slope after slope, the west sun shines, 

After the fight lay our conquering lines. 

The triumph, though great, had cost us dear ; 

And the wounded and dead were lying near — 

When the setting sun on our bivouac proud, 

Sudden burst through a riven cloud. 

An answering shout broke from our men — 

Wounds and toils were forgotten then, 

And dying men were heard to pray 

The light would last till they passed away — 

They wished to die on our triumph day. 

We honoured the omen, and thought on times gone, 

And from chief to chief the word was passed on. 

The " harp on the green" our land-flag should be. 

And the sun through clouds bursting, our flag at sea, 

The green borne harp o'er yon battery gleams, 

From the frigate's topgallant the '• sun-burst" streams, 

In that far-off* isle a sainted sago 
Built a lowly hermitage, 
W'here ages gone made pilgrimage. 
Over his grave, with what weird delight, 



MY HOME. 213 

The grey trees swim ia the flooding light ; 
How a halo clasps their solemn head, 
Like heaven's breath on the rising dead. 

Longing and languid as prisoned bird. 
With a powerless dream my heart is stirred, 
And I pant to pierce beyond the tomb, 
And see the light, or share the gloom. 
But vainly for such power we pray, 
God wills^nough — let man obey. 

Two thousand years, 'mid sun and storm, 

That tall tower has lifted its mystic form. 

The yew-tree shadowing the aisle, 

'Twixt airy arch and mouldering pile. 

And nigh the hamlet that chapel fair 

Shew religion has dwelt, and is dwelling there. 

While the Druid's crom-leac up the vale 
Tells how rites may change, and creeds may fail. 
Creeds may perish, and rites may fall, 
But that hamlet worships the God of all. 

In the land of the pious, free, and brave. 
Was the happy home that sweet dream gave. 
But the mirth, and beauty, and love that dwell 
Within that home — I may not tell. 



214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



FANNY POWER. 



The lady's son rode by the mill ; 
The trees were murmuring on the hill, 
But in the valley they were still, 

And seemed with heat to cower : 
They said that he should be a priest, 
For so had vowed his sire, deceased ; 
They should have told him too, at least, 

To fly from Fanny Power. 

n. 

The lonely student felt his breast 
Was like an empty linnet's nest, 
Divinely moulded to be blest. 

Yet pining hour by hour : 
For, see, amid the orchard trees, 
Her green gown kirtled to her knees, 
Adown the brake, like whispering breeze^ 

Went lightsome Fanny Power. 



Her eyes cast down a mellow light 
Upon her neck of glancing white, 
like starshine on a snowy night, 
Or moonshine on a tower. 



FANNY POWER. 215 

She sang — ho thought her songs were hymns— 
An angel's grace was in her limbs ; 
The swan that on Lough Erne swims 
Is rude to Fanny Power. 

IV. 

Returned, he thought the convent dull, 

At best a heavy heartless lull — 

No hopes to cheer, no flowers to cull, 

No sunshine and no shower. 
The Abbot sent him to his cell, 
And spoke of penance and of hell ; 
But nothing in his heart to quell 

The love of Fanny Power. 

V. 

He dreamed of her the livelong day 

At evening, when he tried to pray, 

Instead of other Saints, he'd say, ' 

O holy — Fanny Power ! 
How happier seemed an exile's lot 
Than living there, uulov'd, forgot ; 
And, oh, best joy ! to share his cot 

His own dear Fanny Power. 

VI. 

'Tis vain to strive with Passion's might- 
He left the convent walls one night. 
And she was won to join his flight 
Before he wooed an hour ; 



216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

So, flying to a freer land, 
He broke his vow at Love's command, 
And placed a ring upon the hand 
Of happy Fanny Power. 



^ 



MARIE NANGLE ; OR, THE SEVEN SISTERS 

OF. NAVAN. 

A FRAGMENT. 



Oh ! there were sisters, sisters seven, 
As bright as any stars in heaven ; 
Save one, they all were snowy white, 
And she like oriental night: 
Yet she was like unto the rest. 
Had all their softness in her breast, 
Their lights and shadows in her face, 
And in her figure all their grace ; 
The brightest she of all the seven, 
Yet all were bright, as stars in heaven. 

II. 
They had true lovers, every one, 
Except the fairest — she had none ; 
Or rather say that she returned 
Their love to none who for her burned ; 



MARIE NANGLE. 217 

For Marie's timid, Marie's mild, 

And on her spirit undefiled 

St. Brigid's* nuns their thoughts have bent ; 

She flies her sister's merriment. 

They say they'll marry, every one, 

But Marie says she'll be a Nun. 

m. 

" Oh ! wait a w^hile," her father said, 
" Sweet Marie, wait till I am dead." 
The Nuns, for this, more firmly sought 
To wean her from each earthly thought. 
Oh ! you were made for God, not man,^ 
'Twas thus their pious plea began ; 
For much these pale recluses feared. 
As her gay sisters' nuptials neared. 
" Oh ! wait awhile," the Baron said, 
" Sweet Marie, wait till they are wed." 

tv. 

A novice now, sweet Marie dwells 

Within dark Odder's sacred cells ; 

Yet on her sisters' wedding day 

She joins the chivalrous array. 

The brides were sweeter than their flowers, 

The bridegrooms came from haughty towersj. 



Of Odder, — a nunnery dedicated to St. Bride or Brigid in the 
county Meath, parish of Skreen, in the twelfth century. 
19 



218 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

For Nangle's* daughters are beneath 
No lordly hand in lordly Meath. 
The novice heart of Marie swells, 

she sighs, "are Odder's cells!** 



V. 

Yet vainly on that wedding day 
Her sisters and their gay grooms pray — • 
She grieves to part with those so dear, 
But she is filled with pious fear ; 
While Tuite and Tyrrell urged in vain. 
Her tears fell down like Munster rain — 
Malone and Bellew, Taaffe and Deasef — 
" Oh, cease," she says, " in pity cease, 
Or I must leave your wedding gay, 
In Odder's walls to fast and pray." 



The marriage rites are bravely done ; 
But what ails her, the novice Nun ? 
Oh ! never had she seen an eye 
Look into hers so tenderly. 
" Methinks that deep and mellow voice 
Would make the Abbess' self rejoice ; 



• The Nangles were Barons of the Navan, and figure niach in th« 
history of the Pale. 

t 'Tis clear the Nangles knew their rank, for these names were 
among the best in Meath. 



MY GRAVE. 219 



He's sure the Saint I dreamt upon — 
Not Barnewell of Trimleston. 
In Holy Land his spurs he won— 
What aileth me, a novice Nun?" 
* * * * 



[It is but a fragment of a Ballad, which some of Davis's friends ar« 
sure was completed. No more, however, than the above was CTer 
printed.] 



MY GRAVE. 



Shall they bury me in the deep, 
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep? 
Shall they dig a grave for me, 
Under the green-wood tree 1 
Or on the wild heath, 
Where the wilder breath 
Of the storm doth blow ? 
Oh, no ! oh, no ! 

Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs, 

Or under the shade of Cathedral domes ? 

Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore ; 

Yet not there — nor in Greece, though I love it more. 

In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find ? 

Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind? 



220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound, 
Where cofRnless thousands lie under the ground ? 
Just as they fall they are buried so — 
Oh, no ! oh, no ! 

No ! on an Irish green hill-side. 

On an opening lawn — but not too wide ; 

For I love the drip of the wetted trees — 

I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze, 

To freshen the turf — put no tombstone there, 

But green sods decked with daisies fair ; 

Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew. 

The matted grass-roots may trickle through. 

Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind, 

" He served his country, and loved his kind." 

Oh ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go, 
If one were sure lo be buried so. 



APPENDIX 



^:ep sunk in that bed is the sword of Monroe, 
Since, twixt it and Donagh,* he met Owen Roe. 

Poems, pi ge 34. 

The Blackwater in Ulster is especially remarkable as the scene of 
the two most memorable victories obtained by the Irish over the 
English power for several centuries past. The particulars of these 
battles are so little known, that it is hoped the following accounts of 
them, taken from the best accessible sources, will be acceptable to the 
reader. The first is from the pen of Mr. Davis. 

THE BATTLE OF BENBURB. 

(5th June, 1646.) 

The battle of Benburb was fought upon the slopes of ground, now 
rnlled the Thistle Hill, from being the property of the Thistles, a 
family of Scotch farmers, now represented by a fine old man of over 
eighty years. This ground is two and a quarter miles in a right lino, 
or three by the road, from the Church of Benburb, and about six 
miles below ('aledon, in the county Tyrone ; in the angle between 
the Blackwater and the Oonagh, on the Benburb side of the latter, 



• So this line runs, as originally published, and likewise in the text 
of the present edition. But I have a strong suspicion that the author 
wrote it, — '' Since 'twixt it and Oonagh,''' &c., meaning the river 
Oonagh. Vide description of the battle, especially the first paragraph. 
I would not, however, alter the text, without some search after tha 
original MS. ; or, in default of that, a critical examination of the to 
pography of a district, in the description of which so many errors hay 
been committed. — Ed. 



222 APPENDIX. 

and close to Battleford Bridge. We are thus particular m marking 
the exact place, because of the blunders of many writers on it. 

Major General Robert Monro landed with several thousand Scots at 
Carrickfergus, in the middle of April, 1642, and on the 28th and 29th 
was joined by Lord Conway and Colonel Chichester, &c , with 1800 
foot, five troops of horse, and two of dragoons. Early in May, a junc- 
tion was effected between Monro and Tilchborne, and an army of 
12,000 foot, and between 1,000 and 2,000 horse, was made up. Yet, 
with this vast force, Monro achieved nothing but plunder, unless the 
treacherous seizure of Lord Antrim be an exception. Thus was the 
springof 1642 wasted. Yet, so overwhelming was Monro's force, that 
the Irish Chiefs were thinking of giving up the war, when, on the 
13)h July, Owes Roe Mac-Art O'Neill landed at Doe Castle, 
county Donegal, and received the command. 

Owen Roe was born in Ulster, and at an early age entered the 
Spanish — the imperial service — influenced, doubtless, by the same 
motives that led Marshal MacDonald into the French — that " the 
gates of promotion were closed at home." Owen, from his great con- 
nexions and greater abilities, rose rapidly, and held a high post in 
Catalonia. We have heard, through Dr. Gartland, the worthy head of 
the Salamanca College, that Eugenio Rufo is still remembered there. 
He held Arras in 1640 against the French, and (says Carte) " sur- 
" rendered it at last upon honourable terms, yet his conduct in the 
"defence was such as gave him great reputation, and procured him 
•' extraordinary respect even from the enemy." 

Owen was sent for at the first outbreak in 1641, but it was not till 
the latter end of .Tune, 1642, that he embarked for Dunkirk, with 
many of the officers and men of his own regiment, and supplies of 
arms. He sailed round the north of Scotland to Donegal, while an- 
other frigate brought similar succors to Wexford, under Henry O'Neill 
and Richard O'Farrell. Owen was immediately conducted to Charle- 
mont, and invested with the command of Ulster. 

Immediately on Owen'.= landing, Lesley, Earl of Leven, and Gene- 
ral of the Scotch troops, wrote to him, saying "he was sorry a 
man of his reputation and experience abroad, should come to Ireland 
for the maintaining of so bad a cause ; " and advising his return 1 
O'Neill replied, " he had more reison to come to relieve the deplora- 
ble state of his country, than Lesley had to march at the head of an 
army into England against his king, at a time when they (the Scots* 



BATTLE OF BENBURB. 223 

were already masters of all Scotland." No contrast could be 
greater or better put. Lord Leven immediately embarked for 
Scotland, telling Monro, whom he left in command, "that he 
would certainly be ousted, if O'Neill once got an army together.' 
And so it turned out. Owen sustained himself for four years 
against Monro on one side and Ormond on the other — harasf|:d 
by the demands of the other provincial generals, and distressed for 
want of provisions — defying Monro by any means to compel him to 
fight a battle until he was ready for it. But at length, having his 
troops in fine fighting order, he fought and won the greatest battle 
fought in Ireland since the " Yellow Ford." But we must tell how 
this came about. 

Throughout 1642, and in the summer of 1643, Monro made two 
attempts to beat up O'Neill's quarters ; and though the Irish General 
had not one tenth of Monro's force, he compelled him to retire with 
loss into Antrim and Down. Assailed by Stewart's army on the 
Donegal side, Owen Roe retreated into Longford and Leitrim, hoping 
'n the rugged districts to nurse up an army which would enable him 
to meet Monro in the field. 

By the autumn of 1643, after having suffered many trifling losses, he 
had got together a militia army of 3,000 men, and the cessation hav- 
ing been concluded, he marched into Meath, joined Sir James Dillon* 
and reduced the entire district. In 1644, Monro's army amounting to 
13,000 men, — O'Neill, after having for a short time occupied great 
part of Ulster, again returned to North Leinster. Here he was 
joined by Lord Castlehaven with 6,000 men ; but except trifling skir- 
mishes, no engagement took place, and Castlehaven returned, 
disgusted with a war, which he had not patience to value, nor 
profundity to practise. 1645 passed over in similar skirmishes, in 
which the country suffered terribly from the plundering of Monro's 
army. 

The leaders under Owen Roe were. Sir Phelim O'Neill, and his 
brother Tarlough ; Con, Cormac, Hugh, and Brian O'Neill ; and the 
following chieftains with their clans •—Bernard MacMahon, the soa 
of Hugh, chief of Monaghan, and Baron of Dartry ; Colonel Mac- 
Mahon, Colonel Patri<!k MacNeny (who was married to Helen, siste' 
of Bernard MacMahon); Colonel Richard O'Ferrall of Longford, 
Roger Maguire of Fermanagh ; Colonel Phillip O'Reilly, of Ballyna' 
cargy tastle in the county of Cavan (who was married to Rose O'Neill 

19* 



22 1 APPENDIX. 

the sis*er of Owen Roe) ; and the valiant Maolmora O'Reilly (kins- 
man to Philip), who, from his great strength and determined bravery 
was called Miles the Slasher. The O'Reillys brought 200 chosen men 
of their own name, and of the MacBradys, MacCabes, Mac Gowans, 
Fitzpatrirks, and Fitzsimons, from Cavan. Some fighting men were 
also brought by MacGauran of Templeport, and MacTernan of Cro- 
ghan; some Connaught forces came with the O'Rorkes, MacDermotts> 
O'Connors and O'Kelleys ; there came also some of the O'Donnells 
and O'Doghertys of Donegal ; Manus O'Cane of Derry ; Sir Con- 
stantine Magennis, county of Down ; the O'llanlous of Armagh, regal 
standard bearers of Ulster ; and the O'Hagans of Tyrone. 

Lords Blaney, Conway, and Montgomery commanded under Monro. 

In the spring of 1646, Owen Roe met the Nuncio at Kilkenny, and 
received from the council an ampler provision than heretofore ; and 
by May he had completed his force under it to 5,000 foot and 500 
horse. This army consisted partly of veterans trained by the four 
preceding campaigns, and partly of new levies, whom he rapidly 
brought into discipline by his organising genius, and his stern punish 
ments. 

With this forte he marched into the county of Armagh, and Monro, 
hearing of his movements, advanced against him by rapid marches, 
hoping to surprise him in Armagh city. Monro's forces consisted, 
according to all the best authorities, of 6,000 foot, 800 horse, and 7 
field-pieces ; though some accounts raise his foot to 8,500, and he him- 
self lowers it in his apologetic dispatch to 3,400 and states his field- 
pieces at 6. 

Simultaneously with Monro's advance, his brother, Colonel George 
Monro, marched from CoJeraine, along the west shore of Loch Neagh, 
with three troops of horse ; and a junction was to have been effected 
between the two Monros and the Tyrconnell forces at Glasslough, a 
place in the county Monaghan, but only a few miles S. W. of Armagh. 
On the 4th of June Owen Roe marched from Glasslough to Benburb, 
confident, by means of the river and hilly country, that he could pre- 
vent the intended junction. Monro bivouacked the same night at 
Hamilton's Bawr four miles from Armagh. Before dawn on Friday, 
the 5tli, Monro marched to Armagh town, burning houses, and wasting 
crops, as he advanced. Fearful lest his brother, who had reached 
Dungannon, should be cut off, he marched towards Benburb, and on 
finding the strength of the Irish position there, advanced up the right 



BATTLE OF BENBURB. 225 

banit Oi tht Blackwater, hoping to tempt. Owen from his ground. In 
the meantime a body of Irish horse, detached against George Monro, 
had met him near Dungannon, and checked his advance, though with 
some loss. 

A good part of the day was thus spent, and it .vas two o'clock in the 
afternoon before Monro crossed the Blackwater at Kinaird (now Ca- 
ledon), and led his army down the left bank of the river against 
O'Neill. This advance of Owen's to Ballykilgavin was only to con- 
sume time and weary the enemy, for he shortly after retreated to 
Knockuacliagh, where he had determined to fight. It was now past 
four o'clock, when the enemy's foot advanced in a double line o 
columns. The first line consisted of five, and the second of four 
columns, much too close for manoeuvring. The Irish front consisted 
of four, and the reserve of three divisions, with ample room. 

O'Neill's position was defended on the right by a wet bog, and on 
the left by the junction of the Blackwater and the Oonagh. In his 
front was rough, hillocky ground, covered " with scrogs and bushes. ' 

lieutenant-Colonel Richard O'Farrell occupied some strong ground 
in advance of Owen's position, but Colonel Cunningham, with 500 
musketeers, and the field-pieces, carried the pass, and O'Farrall 
effected his retreat with little loss, and no disorder. The field guns 
were pushed in advance by Monro with most of his cavalry, but Owen 
kept the main body of his horse in reserve. 

A good deal of skirmishing took place, and though the enemy had 
gained much ground, his soldi'-rs were growing weary, it was five 
o'clock, and the evening sun of a clear and fiery June glared in their 
faces. While in this state, a body of cavalry was seen advancing 
from the north-west ; Monro declared them to be his brother's squad- 
rons, and became confident of success. But a few minutes sufliced to 
undeceive him, — they were the detachments, under Colonels Bernard 
MacMahon and Patrick MacNeney, returning from Dungannon, after 
having driven George Monro back upon his route. 

The Scotch musketeers continued for some time to gain ground 
along the banks of the Oonagh, and threatened Owen's left, till the 
light cavalry of the Irish broke in among them, sabred many, drove 
the rest across the stream, and returned without any loss. The bat- 
tle now became general. The Scotch cannon posted on a slope an* 
noyed O'Neill's centre, and there seemed some danger of Monro's 
manoeuvring to the west sufficiently to communicate with Georga 



226 AprENDix. 

Monro's corps. Owen, therefore, decided on a general attack, keepinif 
only Rory Maguire's regiment as a reserve. HiS foot moved on ia 
steady columns, and his horse in the spaces between the first and 
second charge of his masses. In vain did Monro's cavalry charge this 
determined infantry ; it threw back from its face squadron after 
squadron, and kept constantly, rapidly, and evenly advancing. In 
vain did Lord Blaney take pike in hand, and stand in the ranks. 
Though exposed to the play of Monro's guns and musketry, the Irish 
infantry charged up hill without firing a shot, and closed with sabre 
and pike. They met a gallant resistance. Blaney and his men held 
their ground long, tilltlie superior vivacity and freshness of the Irish 
clansmen bore him down. 

An attempt was made with the columns of the rear line to regain 
the ground ; but from the cimfined space in which they were drawn 
up, the attempt to manoeuvre them only produced disorder ; and just 
at this moment, to complete their luin, O'Neill's cavalry, wheeling by 
the flanks of his columns, charged the Scotch cavalry, and drove them 
pell-mell upon the shaken and confused infantry. A total rout fol- 
lowed. Monro, Lord Conway, Captain Burke, and forty of the horse- 
men escaped across the Blackwater, but most of the foot were cut to 
pieces, or drowned in the river. 3,423 of the enemy were found on 
the battle-field, and Lord Montgomery., with 21 officers and 150 men 
were taken prisoners, O'Neill lost 70 killed (including Colonel 
Manus, MacNeill and Garve O'Donnell), and 200 wounded (including 
Lt.-Col. O'Farrell and Phelim Mac Tuohill O'Neill). He took all the 
Scots artillery, twenty stand of colours, and all the arms, save those 
of Sir James Montgomery, whose regiment, being on Monro's extreme 
right, effected its retreat in some order. 1,500 draft horses and two 
months' provisions were also taken, but, unfortunately, Monro's 
ammunition blew up shortly after the battle was won. Monro fled 
without coat or wig to Lisburn. Moving from thence he commanded 
every household to furnish two musketeers ; he wrote an apologetic 
and deceptious dispatch to the Irish committee in London, burnt 
Dundrum and deserted most of Down. But all his efforts would 
have been in vain ; for O'Neill, having increased his array by Scotch 
deserters and fresh levies, to 10,000 foot and 21 troops of horse, was 
in the very act of breaking in on him, with a certainty of expelling 
the last invader from Ulster, when the fatal command of the Nuncio 
reache(? Owen at Tanderagee, ordering him to march southward to 



THE BATTLE OF BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDHE. 227 

support that factious ecclesiastic agains* the peace. O'Neill, in aa 
unhappy hour, obeyed the Nuncio, abandoned the fruits of his splen- 
did victory, and marched to Kilkenny, 



11. 

And CharlemonVs cannon 
Slew many a man on ** 

These meadows below. 

Poems, page 34. 

The following passage will sufficiently explain this allusion : — 
"Early in .Fune (1602) Lord Mountjoy marched by Dundalk to 
Armagh, and from thence, without interruption, to the banks of the 
Blackwater, about five miles to the eastward of Portmore, and nearer 
to Loch Neagh. He sent Sir Richard Moryson to the north bank of 
the river, commenced the building of a bridge at that point, and a 
castle, which he named Charlemont, from his own christian name, 
and stationed a garrison of one hundred and fifty men there, uudei 
the command of Captain Toby Caulfield — the founder of a noble 
family, which has held that spot from that day to this ; but which 
afte) wards (as is usual with settlers in Ireland) became more Irish 
than many of the Irish themselves." 

MitcheVs Life of Aodh O'Neill, p. 219. 
Vide Irish Penny Journal for 1841-2, p. 217. 



III. 

And yonder Red Hugh 
Marshal Bagenal o'ei threw 

On Beal-an-atha-buidhe. 

Poems, page 34. 

THE BATTLE OF BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDHE. 

(IOth August, 1595.) 
••The tenth morning of August rose bright and serene ipon the 



228 APPENDIX. 

towers of Armagh and the silver waters of Avonmore. Before day 
dawne 1, the English army left the city in three divisions, and at sun- 
rise they were winding through the hills and woods behind the spot 
where now stands the little church of Grange. The sun was glancing 
on the corslets and spears of their glittering cavalry ; their banners 
waved proudly, and their bugles rung clear in the morning air; when, 
suddenly from the thickets on both sides of their path, a deadly volley 
of musketry swept through the foremost ranks. O'Neill had stationed 
here five hundred light-armed troops to guard the defiles ; and in the 
shelter of thick groves of fir-trees they had silently waited for the 
enemy. Now they poured in their shot, volley after volley, and killed 
great numbers of the English: but the first division, led by Bagnal in 
person, after some hard fighting, carried the pass, dislodged the 
marksmen from their position, and drove them backwards into the 
plain. — The centre division under Cosl)y and Wiugfield, and the rear- 
guard led by Cuin and Billing, snpported in flank by the cavalry 
under Brooke, Montacute, and Fleming, now pushed forward, speedily 
cleared the diflScult country, and formed in the open ground in front 
of the Irish lines. 'It was not quitpsafe,' says an Irish chronicler, 
(in admiration of Bagnal's disposition of his forces) ' to attack the 
nest of griffins and den of lions in which were placed the soldiers of 
London.' Bagnal, at the head of his first division, and aided by a 
body of cavalry, charged the Irish light-armed troops up to the very 
entrenchments, in front of which O'Neill's foresight had prepared 
some pits, covered over with wattles and grass ; and many of the 
English cavalry rushing impetuously forward, rolled headlong, both 
men and horses, into these trenches, and perished. Still the Mar- 
shal's chosen troops, with loud cheers and shouts of 'St. George, for 
merry England !' resolutely attacked the entrenchments that stretched 
across the pass, battered them with cannon, and in one place succeeded, 
though with heavy loss, in forcing back their defenders. Then first 
the main body of O'Neill's troops was brought into acti(m ; and with 
bag-pipes sounding a charge, they fell upon the English, shouting 
their fierce battle-cries, Lamhdearg I and O'Domhnaill Abul O'Neill 
himself, at the head of a body of horse, pricked forward to seek out 
Bagnal amidst the throng of battle ; but they never met : the marshal 
who had done his devoir that day like a good soldier, was shot through 
the brain by some unknown marksman: the division he had led was 
forced back by the furious onslaught of the Irish, and put to uttei 



CYMRIC RT3LE AND CYMRIC RULERS. 229 

rout ; and, what added to their confusion, a cart of gunpowder ex- 
ploded amidst the English ranks, and blew many of their men to 
atoms. And now the cavalry of Tyr-connell and Tyr-owen dashed 
into the plain and bore down the remnant of Brooke's and Fleming's 
horse: the columns of Wingfield and Cosby reeled before their 
rushing charge — while in front, to the war cry of BataiUa Abu! the 
swords and axes of the heavy-armed galloglasses were raging 
am(mgst the Saxon ranks. By this time the cannon were all taken ; 
the cries of ' St. George' had failed, or turned into death-shrieks ,• and 
once more, England's royal standard sunk before the Red Hand of 
Tyr-owen. 

" The last who resisted was the traitor O'Reilly : twice he tried 
to rally the flying squadrons, but was slain in the attempt ; and at 
last the whole of that fine army was utterly routed, and fled pell- 
mell towards Armagh, with the Irish hanging fiercely on their rear. 
Amidst the woods and marshes all connexion and order were speedi- 
ly lost ; and as O'Donnell's chronicler has it, they were ' pursued in 
couples, in threes, in scores, in thirties, and in hundreds,' and so cut 
down in detail by their avenging pursuers. In one spot especially 
the carnage was terrible, and the country people yet point out the 
lane where that hideous rout passed by, and call it to this day tho 
' Bloody Loaning.' Two thousand five hundred English were slain in 
the battle and flight, including twenty-three superior oflScers, besides 
lieutenants and ensigns. Twelve thousand gold pieces, thirty-four 
standards, all the musical instruments and cannon, with a long train 
of provision waggons, were a rich spoil for the Irish army. The con- 
federates had only two hundred slain -and six hundred wounded. 
MitcheVs Life of Aodh O'Neill, pp. 141—144. 



IV. 

CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS 

Poems, page 41. 
This poem has less title than any other in Part 1. to be ranked 
among National (i. e. either in subject, or by aim or allusion, Irish) 
20 



230 APPENDIX. 

Uallads and Son^, unless the affinity of the Cymric with the Irisli 
Celts, and the fact that the author himself was of Welsh extraction 
by the father's side, be considered a sufficient justilication. 

Mr. Davis was very fond of the air — " The March of the men of 
Harlech," to which this poem is set. To evince his strong- partiality 
for, and sympathy with, the Welsh people, it is enough to quote the 
following passage from one of his political essays — 

" We just now opened AVCuUoch's Geographical Dictionary, to asr 
certain some Welsh statistics, and found at the name 'Wales' a 
reference to ' England and Wales,' and at the latter title nothing 
distinct on the Principality ; and what was there, was rather inferior 
to the information on Cumberland, or most English counties. 

" And has time, then, we said, mouldered away that obstinate 
and fiery tribe of Celts which baffled the Plantagenets, which so often 
trod upon the breastplates of the Norman, which sometimes bent in 
the summer, but ever rose when the fierce elements of winter came 
to aid the native ? Has that race passed away, which stood under Lle- 
wellyn, and rallied under Owen Glendower, and gave the Dragon flag 
and Tudor kings to England? Is the prophecy of twelve hundred 
years false— are the people and tongue passed away V 

"No! spite of the massacre of bards, and the burning of records- 
spite of political extinction, there is a million of these Kymrys in 
Wales and its marches ; and nine out of ten of these speak their old 
tongue, follow their old customs, sing the songs which the sleepers 
upon Snowdon made, have their religious rites in Kymric, and hate 
the Logrian as much as ever their fathers did. * • « 

"Twenty-nine Welsh members could do much if united, more (»• 
pecially if they would co-operate with the Irish and Scotch members 
in demanding their share of the imperial expenditure ; or what would 
be safer and better, in agitating for a local council to administer the 
local affairs of the Principality. A million of the Kymry, who are 
still apart in their mountains, who have immense mineral resources, 
and some good harbours, one (Milford) the best in Britain, and who 
are of our blood, nearly of our old and un-English language, have as 
good a right to a local senate, as the 700,000 people of Greece, or the 
half million of Cassel or Mecklenburgh have to independence, or as 
each of the States of America has to a local congress. Localization 
by means of Federalism seems the natural and best resource of a 
country like Wales "o guard its purse, and language, and characlei 



A CHRISTMAS SCENE. 231 

from imperial oppression, and its soil from foreign invasion. Ai 
powers run, it is not liite Ireland quite able, if free, to hold her own ; 
but it has importance enough to entitle it to a local congress for its 
local affairs." 



V. 

THE IRISH HURRAH. 

Poems, page 47. 

The second stanza of this poem, as it appears in the text, was 
omitted by the author in a later copy ; it would seem, with a view of 
adapting it better to the air to which it is set. 



VI. 

A CHRISTMAS SCENE. 

Poems, page 86. 

The first sketch of this poem differs a good deal from that in the 
text. It is so pleasing, that it is given here, as originally published 
It was then entitled : 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

I. 

The hill-blast comes howling from leaf-rifted trees, 
Which late were as harp-strings to each gentle breeze ; 
The sportsmen have parted, the blue-stockings gone. 
While we sit happy-hearted — together, alone. 



232 APPENDIX. 



The glory of nature through the window has charms. 
But within, gentle Kate, you're entwined in my arms ; 
The sportsmen may seek for snipe, woodcock and hare—" 
The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair. 



The painters may rave of the light and the shade, 
The blues and the poets of lake, hill, and glade ; 
While the light of your eye, and your soft vtravy fornc 
Suit a proser like me by the hearth bright and warm. 

IV. 

My Kate, I'm so happy, your voice whispers soft, 
And your cheek flushes wilder by kissing so oft ; 
Should our kiss grow less fond, or the weather serene, 
Forth together we'll wander to see each loved scene. 



And at eve, as the sportsmen and pedants will say, 
As they swaLow their dinner, how they spent the day, 
Your eye, roguish-smiling, to me only will say 
That more sweetly thjin any, you and I spent the day 



VII. 

THE FATE OF KING DATHI. 

Poems, p. 98. 

The real adventuies of this warlike king, the last of the Pagan 

monarchs of Ireland, and likewise the last who extended his conquests 

to the continent of Europe, are, like too much of the ancient annals. 

of this country, ohscured by the mixture of pious or romantic legends 



FATE OF KING DATIII. 233 

with authentic history. An accurate account of Dathi, and his im- 
mediate predecessors, will be found in the Addenda to Mr. O'Dono- 
van'a excellent edition of the Tribes and Customs of the Ui-Fiachrach, 
printed for the Irish Archaeological Society ; from which the following 
passages are extracted. 

" In !he life-time of Niall of the Nine Hostages, Brian, his brother 
of the half-blood, became King of Connaught, and his second brother 
of the half-alood, Fiachra, the ancestor of the O'Dowds and all the 
Ui-Fiachrach tribes, became chief of the district extending from 
Cam Fearadhaigh, near Limerick, to Magh Mucroime, near Athenry. 
But dissensions ioon arose between Brian and his brother Fiachra, 
and the result was that a battle was fought between them, in which 
the latter was defeated, and delivered as a hostage into the hands cf 
his half brother, Niall of the Nine Hostages. -After this, however, 
Dathi, a very warlike youth, waged war on his uncle Brian, and 
challenged him to a pitched battle, at a place called Damh-cluain, 
not far from Knockmea-hill, near Tuam. In this battle, in which 
Dathi was assisted by Crimthann, son of Enna Cennseloch, King of 
Leinster, Brian and his forces were routed, and pursued from the 
field of battle to Fulcha Domhnaill, where he was overtaken and 
slain by Crimthann. »•«*#•«* 

"After the fall of Brian, Fiachra was set at liberty and installed 
King of Connaught, and enjoyed that dignity for twelve years, dur- 
ing which period he was general of the forces of his brother Niall. 
According to the book of Lecan, this Fiachra had five sons, of 
which the most eminent were Dathi, and Amhalgaidh {vulgo Awley) 
King of Connaught, who died in the year 449. The seven sons of 
this Amhalgaidh, together with twelve thousand men, are said to 
have been baptized in one day by St. Patrick, at Forrach Mac n'Am- 
halgaidh, near Killala. 

" On the death of his father Fiachra, Dathi became King of Con- 
naught, and on the death of his uncle, Niall of the Nine Hostages, 
he became Monarch of Ireland, leaving the government of Connaught 
to his less warlike brother Amhalgaidh. King Dathi, following the 
example of his predecessor, Niall, not only invaded the coasts of 
Gaul, but forced his way to the very foot of the Alps, where he was 
killed by a flash of lightning, leaving the throne of Ireland to Ik- 
filled by a line of Christian kings." 

Tribes and Customs of the Vi-Fiachrach — Addenda, pp. 344 — 6. 



234 APPENDIX. 

VIII. 

ARGAN MOR. 

Poems, page 102. 

Mr. Davis was very fond of the air, for which this povm was com- 
posed, and which suggested its name. It is a simple air, of greal 
antiquity, preserved in Bunting's Third Collection, where it is No. V. 
of the airs marked " very ancient." The following is Mr. Bunt- 
ing's account of it : — 

" Argan Mor. — An Ossianic air, still sung to the words preserved 
by Dr. Young, and published in the first volume of the Transactions 
of the Royal Irish Academy. The editor took down the notes from 
the singing, or rather recitation, of a native of Murloch, in the county 
of Antrim. This sequestered district lies along the sea-shore, be- 
tween Tor Point and Fair Head, and is still rife with traditions, both 
musical and legendary. From the neighbouring ports of Cushenduu 
and Cushendall was the principal line of communication with Scot- 
land ; and, doubtless, it was by this route that the Ossianic poems 
themselves found their way into that country." — Ancient Musii oj 
Ireland— Vieface, p. 88. 



IX. 

THE TRUE IRISH KING. 



Poems, page lOS. 
In an essay on Ballad History, Mr. Davis refers to this poem, as an 
attempt to show how the materials and hints, scattered through anti- 
quarian volumes, may be brought together and presented with effect 
m a poetical form. The subject is one involved in unusual obscurity 
considering its importance in Irish History. The chief notices of the 



o'sullivan's return. 235 

custom have been collected by Mr. O'Donovan in the Addenda to his 
edition of the Tribes and Customs of the Ui-Fiachrach, pp. 425 — 452, to 
which work the reader is referred, who may wish to trace the disjecta 
membra poematis, in the scattered hints and traditions of which Mr* 
Da\-i8 has availed himself. 



O'SULLIVAN'S RETURN. 

Poems, page 122. 

The following description was prefixed to this ballad by the author, 
on its first publication :— 

" This ballad is founded on an ill-remembered story of an Irish 
chief, returning after long absence on the Continent, and being 
wrecked and drowned close to his own castle. 

" The scene is laid in Bantry Bay, which runs up into the county of 
Cork, in a north-easterly direction. A few miles from its mouth, on 
your left-hand as you go up, lies Beare Island (about seven miles long), 
and between it and the mainland of Beare lies Beare Haven, one of 
the finest harbours in the world. Dunboy Castle, near the present 
Castletown, was on the main, so as to command the south-western 
entrance to the haven. 

" Further up, along the same shore of Beare, is Adragoole, a small 
gulf off Bantry Bay*. 

•' The scene of the wreck is at the south-eastern shore of Beare 
Island. A ship, steering from Spain, by Mizenhead for Dunboy, and 
caught by a southerly gale, if unable to round the point of Beaie and 
to make the Haven, should leave herself room to run up the bay, to- 
wards Adragoole, or some other shelter." 



236 APrENDLX. 

XL 

— Dunhwy is lying lowly 

The halls where mirth and minstrelsy 

Than Beara's wind rose louder^ 
Arejiung in masses lonelily, 

And black with English powder. 

Poems, p. 129 

The destruction of O'Sullivan's Castle of Dunboy or Dunbwy, (cor 
rectly Dunbaoi or Dunbuidhe) is well described by Mr. Mitchel : — 

" Mountjoy spent that spring in Munster, with the President, re- 
ducing those fortresses which still remained in the hands of the Irish, 
and fiercely crushing down every vestige of the national war. Rich- 
ard Tyrrell, however, still kept the field ; and O'Sullivan Beare held 
his strong castle of Dun-buidhe, which he wrested from the Spaniards 
afttjr Don Juan had stipulated to yield it to the enemy.* This castle 
commanded Bantry Bay, aid was one of the most important fortresses 
in Munster, and therefore Carew determined, at whatever cost, to 
make himself master of it. Dun-buidhe was but a square tower, 
with a court-yard and some out- works, and had but 140 men ; yet it 
was so strongly situated, and so bravely defended, that it held the 
Lord President and an army of four thousand men, with a great train 
of artillery and some ships of war, fifteen days before its walls. After 
a breach was made, the storming parties were twice driven back to 
their lines ; and even after the great hall of the castle was carried, 
the garrison, under their indomitable commander, Mac Geohegan, 
held their ground in the vaults underneath for a whole day, and at 
last fairly beat the besiegers out of the hall. The English cannon 
then played furiously upon the walls ; and the President swore to 

• " Among other places which were neither yielded nor taken to 
the end they should be delivered to the English, Don Juan tied him- 
self to deliver my castle and haven, the only key of mine inheritance, 
whereupon the living of many thousand persons doth rest, that live 
Bome twenty leagues upon the sea-coast into the hands of my cruell, 
cursed, misbelieving enemies." — Lettei of Donald O'Sullivan Bearo 
to the King of Spain. — Pac. Hib. 



LAMENT FOR OWEN ROE o'nEILL. 237 

bury these obstinate Irish under the ruins. Again a desperate sortie 
was made by forty men— they were all slain ; eight of them leaped 
into the sea to save themselves by swimming ; but Carew, anticipating 
this, had stationed Captain Harvy 'with three boats to keepe tho 
sea, but had the killing of them all ;' and at last, after Mac Geohegan 
was mortally wounded, the remnant of the garrison laid down their 
arms. Mac Geohegan lay, bleeding to death, on the floor of the vault ; 
yet when he saw the besiegers admitted, he raised himself up, 
snatched a lighted torch, and staggered to an open powder-barrel — 
one moment, and the castle, with all it contained, would have rushed 
skyward in a pyramid of flame, when suddenly an English soldier 
seized him in his arms ; he was killed on the spot, and all the rest were 
shortly after executed. ' The whole number of the ward,' says Ca- 
rew, 'consisted of one hundred and forty-three selected men, being 
tne best choice of all their forces, of which not one man escaped, but 
were either slain, executed, or buried in the ruins ; and so obstinate 
a defence hath not been seen within this kingdom.' Perhaps some 
will think that the survivors of so brave a band deserved a better fa m 
than hanging." 

MitcheVs Life of Aodh O'Neill, pp. 216—218 



XII. 

LAMENT FOR OWEN ROE O'NEILL. 

Poems, p. 137. 

The most notable events in the career of this great chieftain, will 
be found in the account of the Battle of Benburb, ante, pp. 219— 
225. The closing scenes of his life were briefly narrated as fol- 
lows, by Mr. Davis, in a little sketch, published with this poem, 
when it first appeared ; — 

" In 1649, the country being exhausted, Owen made a truce with 
Monk, Coote, and the Independents — a truce observed on both sides, 
though Monk was severely censured by the English Paiiament for 



238 APPFNDIX. 

it. — (Journals, lOth August, 16491 On its expiration, O'Neill con- 
cluded a treaty with Ormond, 12th October, 1649 ; and so eager was 
he for it, that ere it was signed, he sent over 3,000 men, under Major- 
General O'Farrell, to join Ormond, (which they did October 23th.) 
Owen himself strove with all haste to follow, to encounter Crom- 
well, who had marched south after the sack of Drogheda. Bui fate 
und an unscrupulous foe forbade. Poison, it is believed, had been 
given him cither at Derry, or shortly after. His constitution strug- 
gled with it for some time ; slowly and sinking he marched through 
Tyrone and Monaghan into Cavan, and, — anxiously looked for by 
Ormond, O'Farrell, and the southern corps and army, — lingered till 
the 6th of November (St. Leonard's feast), when he died at Clough 
Oughter Castle, — then the seat of Maelmorra O'Reilly, and situated 
on a rock in Lough Oughter some six miles west of Cavan. He was 
buried, says Carte, in Cavan Abbey ; but report says his sepulchre 
was concealed, lest it should be violated by the English. The news 
of his death reached Orraond's camp when the Duke was preparing 
to fight Cromwell, — when Owen's genius and soldiers were most 
needed. All writers (even to the sceptical Dr. O'Conor, of Stowe) 
admit that had Owen lived, he would have saved Ireland. His gal- 
lantry, his influence, his genius, his soldiers, all combine to render it 
probable. The rashness with which the stout bishop, Ebher Mac 
Mahon, led 4,000 of Owen's veterans to death at Letterkenny, the 
year after ; and the way in which Ormond frittered away the 
strength of O'Farrell's division (though 1,200 of them slew 2,000 of 
Cromwell's men in the breach atClonmel), — and the utter prostration 
which followed, showod Ireland how great was her loss when Owen 
died. 

" O'Farrell, Red Hugh O'Neill, and Mac Mahon, were Ulster 
generals ; Audley, Lord Castlehsven, and Preston, commanded in 
the south and east ; the Marquis of Clanrickarde was president of 
Connaught." 



A RALLY FOR IRELAND. 239 

XIII. 

A RALLY FOR IRELAND. 

Poems, page 140. 

There is no period m Irish, or in English History, which has been 
Bu much misrepresented, or of which so utterly discordant opinions 
»re still entertained, as the Revolution of 1688—91. The English 
history of that revolution has been elaborately sifted, and its hidden 
causes successively dragged to light, by men of remarkable eminence 
in literature and in politics. It is sufficient to mention in England, 
Mr. Fox, Sir James Mackintosh, Mr. Hallam, Dr. Lingard, and Mr 
Ward ;— in France, M. Thierry (Historical Essat/s, No. VI.,) M. 
Carrel, and M. De Mazire, — and among Irishmen, Mr. W. Wallace, 
(.Continuation of Mackintosh'' s History^) and Mr. Torre ns Mac Cullagh, 
(Articles in the North of England Magazine for 1842, and in the Dublin 
Magazine for 1843.) A minute study of some at least of these 
writers, — Mr. Wallace's History is, perhaps, on the whole, the 
fairest and most comprehensive, — is indispensable to a correct under- 
standing of the Irish question. 

In the Dublin Magazine for 1843, January to April, Mr. Davis 
devoted a series of papers to a critical examination of some of the 
Irish authorities on this subject, principally in regard to the Irish 
Parliament of 1689 His aim was to vindicate the character of that 
legislature, and to refute some of the most glaring falsehoods, which 
had hitherto, by dint of impudent reassertion, passed almost unques- 
tioned by Irishmen of every shade of political opinion. Falsehoods of 
a more injurious tendency have never been current among a people ; 
and the effort to expose them was with Mr. Davis, a labour of zeal 
and love ; for he knew well, how much of the religious dissension 
which has been and is the ruin of Ireland, took its rise from, and 
stands rooted in, erroneous conceptions of that time. To these paperi 
the reader is referred, who is anxious to form an accurate, and withal 
a national judgment of the cardinal crisis in Irish History. 

How hig'i the hopes of Ireland were at the commencement of this 
struggle, and how she cherished afterwards the memories a:id '^opes 



240 APPENDIX. 

bequeathed from it, is abundantly illustrated by the Jacobite Relina 
in Mr. Hardimau's Irish Minstrelsy, and in the more recent collection 
of Mr. Daly 



XIV. 

BALLADS AND SONGS OF TIIE BRIGADE. 

Poems, pp. 150—168. 

So considerable a space in this volume is occupied by poems, 
founded on the adventures and services of the Irish Brigade, that it 
seemed right to include here the following sketch, written by Mr. 
Davis in the year 1844 :— 

HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 

INTRODUCTION. 

The foreign military achievements of the Irish began on their own 
account. They conquered and colonized Scotland, frequently overrun 
England during and after the Roman dominion there, and more than 
once penetrated into Gaul. During the time of the Danish invasion, 
they had enough to do at home. The progress of the English con- 
quest brought them again to battle on foreign ground. It is a melan- 
choly fact, that in the brigades wherewith Edward I. ravaged 
Scotland, there were numbers of Irish and Welsh. Yet Scotland 
may be content ; Wales and Ireland suffered from the same base* 
ness. The sacred heights of Snowdon (the Parnassus of Wales) 
were first forced by Gascon mountaineers, whose independence had 
perished ; and the Scotch did no small share of blood- work for 
England here, from the time of Monro's defeats in the Seventeenth 
Century, to the Fencible victories over drunken peasants in 1798. 

In these levies of Edward I., as in those of his son, were numbers 
of native Irish. The Connaught clans in particular seem to have 
berved these Plantagenets. 



SKKTCH OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 241 

From Edward Bruce's invasion, the English control was so broken 
that the Irish clans ceased to serve altogether, and indeed, shortly 
after made many of the Anglo-Irish pay them tribute. But the lords 
of the Pale took an active and prominent part in the wars of the 
Koses ; and their vassals shared the victories, the defeats, and the 
carnage of the time. 

In the Continental wars of Edward III. and Henry V., the Norman- 
Irish served with much distinction. 
-:^ Henry VIII. demanded of the Irish government 2,000 men, 1,000 of 
whom were, if possible, to be gunners, i. e. armed with matchlocks. 
The services of these Irish during the short war in France, and espe- 
cially at the siege of Boulogne, are well known. 

At the submission of Ireland in 1603, O'Sullivac Bearra and some 
others excepted from the amnesty, took service and obtained high 
rank in Spain ; and after the flight of O'Neill and O'Donnell in 1607, 
numbers of Irish crowded into all the Continental services. We find 
them holding commissions in Spain, France, Austria, and Italy. 

Scattered among " Strafford's Letters," various indications are 
discoverable of the estimation in which the Irish were held as soldiers 
in foreign services during the early part of the seventeenth century. 
The Spanish government in particular seems to have been extremely 
desirous of enlisting in Ireland, their own troops at that time being 
equal, if not superior, to any in the world, especially their infantry. 

Nor were the Irish troops less active for the English king. Straf- 
ford had increased the Irish army. These he paid regularly, clothed 
well, and frequently " drew out in large bodies." He meant to op- 
press, but discipline is a precious thing, no matter who teaches it — a 
Strattbrd or a Wellington ; and during the wars which followed 1641, 
aome of these troops he had raised, served Ireland. In 1639, when 
the first row with the Scotch took place, Wentworth was able to 
send a garrison of 500 Irish to Carlisle, and other forces to assist 
Charles. And the victories of Montrose were owing to the valour 
and discipline of the Irish auxiliaries under Colkltto (left-handed) 
Alister Mac Donnell. 

Many of the Insn who had lost their fortunes by the Cromwellian 
wars, served on the Continent. 

Tyrconnell increased the Irish army, but with less judgment than 
Straflford. Indeed, numbers of his regiments were ill-officered mob», 
and, when real work began in 1689, were disbanded as having neiib it 



242 APPENDIX. 

arms nor discipline. His sending of the Irish troops to England has- 
tened the Revolution by exciting jealousy, and they were too mere a 
handful to resist. They were forced to enter the service of German 
princes, especially the Prussian. 

[^n account of the formation of the Irish Brigade, with the names 
and numbers of the regiments, ^c, is omitted here, aa more accurate 
details will be found in *' The History of the Irish Brigade," which it 
to appear in the " Library of Ireland."} 

SERVICES OF THE IRISH BRIQADE. 

The year before the English Revolution of '88, William effected 
the league of Augsburg, and combined Spain, Italy, Holland, and the 
empire, against France ; but except some sieges of imperial towns, 
the war made no great progress till 1690. In that year France blazed 
out ruin on all sides. The Palatinate was overrun and devastated. — 
The defeat of Humieres at Valcourt was overweighed by Luxem* 
burgh's great victory over Prince Waldech at Fleurus. 

But, as yet, no Irish troops served north of the Alps. It was other- 
wise in Italy. 

The Duke of Savoy having joined the Allies, Marshal Catinat en 
tered his territories at the head of 18,000 men. Mountcashel's bri- 
gade, which landed in May and had seen service, formed one-third of 
this corps. Catinat, a disciple of Turenne, relied on his infantry ; 
nor did he err in this instance. On the 8th of August, 1690, he met 
the Duke of Savoy and Prince Eugene at Staffardo, near Salucco. 
The battle began by a feigned attack on the Allies' risjht wing. The 
real attack was made by ten battalions of infantry, who crossed some 
marshes heretofore deemed impassable, turned the left wing com- 
manded by Prince Eugene, drove it in on the centre, and totally 
routed the enemy. The Irish troops ('* bog-trotters," the Times calls 
us now) proved that there are more qualities in a soldier than the 
light step and hardy frame which the Irish bog gives to its inhabit- 
ants. 

But the gallant Mountcashel received a wound, of which he died 
soon after at Bareges. 

This same brigade continued to serve under Catinat throughout the 
Italian campaigns of '91, '92, and '93. 

The principal action of this last year was at Marsiglia on the 4tb 
October. It was not materially different in tac»ic from Staffarda 



SKETCH OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 243 

Catinat cannonading the Allies from a height, made a feigned attack 
m the centre while his right wing lapped round Savoy's left, tumbled 
It in, and routed the army with a loss of 8,000, including Duke 
Schomberg, son to him who died at the Boyne. On this day, too, the 
Munster soldiers had their full share of the laurels. 

They continued to serve during the whole of this war against 
Savoy ; and when, in 1696, the Duke changed sides, and, uniting his 
forces with Catinat's, laid siege to Valenza in North Italy, the Irish 
distinguished themselves again. No less than six Irish regiments 
were at this siege. 

While these .campaigns were going on in Italy, the garrison of 
Limerick landed in France, and the second Irish Brigade was formed. 
The Flanders campaisrn of '91 hardly went beyond skirmishes. 
Louis opened 1692 by besieging Namur at the head of 120,000 men, 
including the bulk of the Irish Brigade. Luxemburgh was the actual 
commander, and Vauban the engineer. Namur, one of the greatest 
fortresses of Flanders, was defended by Coehorn, the all but equal 
of Vauban ; and William advanced to its relief at the head of 100,000 
men, — illustrious players of that fearful game. But French and Irish 
valour, pioneered by Vauban and manoeuvred by Luxemburgh, pre*, 
vailed. In seven days Namur was taken, and shortly after the citadel 
surrendered, thougn within shot of William's camp. 

Louis returned to Versailles, and Luxemburgh continued his pro- 
gress. 

On the 24th of July, 1692, William attempted to steal a victory 
from the Marshal who had so repeatedly beaten him. Having 
forced a spy to persuade Luxemburgh that the Allies meant only 
to forage, he made an attack on the French camp, then placed be- 
tween Steenkirk and Enghien. Wirtemburg and Mackay had ac- 
tually penetrated the French camp ere Luxemburgh mounted his 
horse. But, so rapid were his movements, so skilfully did he divide 
the Allies and crush Wirtemburg ere Count Solmes could help him, 
that the enemy was driven off with the loss of 3,000 men, and many 
colours and cannon. 

Sarsfield, who commanded the Brigade that day, was publicly 
thanked for his conduct. In March, 1693, he was made a Maresclial 
de Camp. 

But his proud carser was drawing to a close. He was slain on the 
59th July, 1693, at Landen, heading his countrymen in the van of 

21 



244 APPENDIX. 

victory, King Williara flying. He could not haye died better. Hi* 
last thoughts were for his country. As he lay on the field unhelmed 
and dying, he put his hand to his breast. When he took it away, it 
was full of his best blood. Looking at it sadly with an eye in which 
victory shone a moment before, he said faintly, " Oh ! that this were 
for Ireland." He said no more ; and history records no nobler saying, 
nor any more becoming death.* 

It is needless to follow out the details of the Italian and Flanders 
campaigns. Suffice that bodies of the Irish troops served in each of 
the great armies, and maintained their position in the French ranks 
during years of hard and incessant war. 

James II. died at St. Germain's on the I6th September, 1701, and 
was buried in the church of the English Benedictines in Paris. But 
his death did not affect the Brigade. Louis immediately acknow- 
ledged his son James III., and the Brigade, upon which the king's 
hopes of restoration lay, was continued. 

In 1701, Sheldon's cavalry, then serving under Catinat in Italy, had 
an engagement with the cavalry corps under the famous Count Merci, 
and handled them so roughly tha<; Sheldon was made a lieutenant- 
general of France, and the supernumeraries of his corps were put 
on full pay. 

In January, 1702, occurred the famous rescue of Cremona. Ville- 
roy succeeded Catinat in August, 1701, and having with his usual 
rashness attacked Eugene's camp at Chiari, he was defeated. Both 
parties retired early to winter quarters, Eugene encamping so as to 
blockade Mantua. While thus placed, he opened an intrigue with 
one Cassoli, a priest of Cremona, where Villeroy had his head-quar- 
ters. An old aqueduct passed under Cassoli's house, and he had it 
cleared of mud and weeds by the authorities, under pretence that 
his house was injured for want of drainage. Having opened this 
way, he got several of Eugene's grenadiers into the town disguised, 
and now at the end of January all was ready. 
. Cremona lies on the left bank of the river Po. t It was then five 

• According to Mr O'Conor, {Military History of the Irish Nation, 
p. 223.) "there was no Irish corps in the army of Luxemburgh, and 
Sarsfield fell leading on a charge of strangers." But this only makes 
his death, and the regrets which accompanied it, the more affecting.— 
Ed. 

t In talking of right or left banks of rivers, you are supposed to bo 
looking down the stream. Thus, Connaught is on the right bank of 
the Shannon ; Leihster and Munster on its left bank. 



SKETCH OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 245 

miles round, was guarded by a strong castle and by an enceinte, or 
continued fortification all around it, pierced by five gates. One ol 
these gates led almost directly to the bridge over the Po. This bridge 
was fortified by a redoubt. 

Eugene's design was to surprise the town at night. He meant to 
penetrate on two sides, south and north Prince Charles of Vaude- 
mont crossed the Po at Firenzola, and marching up the right bonk 
with 2,500 foot and 500 horsey was to assault the bridge and gate of 
the Po, as soon as Eugene had entered on the north. As this north- 
ern attack was more complicated, and as it succeeded, it may be best 
described in the narrative of events. 

On the 31st of January Eugene crossed the Oglio at TJstiano, and 
approached the north of the town. Marshal Villeroy had that night 
returned from a war council at Milan. 

At 3 o'clock in the morning of the 1st of February, the allies closed 
in on the town in the following order: 1,100 men under Count 
Kufstein entered by the aqueduct ; 300 men were led to the gate of 
St. Margaret's, which had been walled up, and immediately com- 
menced removing the wall from it ; meantime, the other troops under 
Kufstein pushed on and secured the ramparts to some distance, and 
as soon as the gate was cleared, a vanguard of horse under Count 
Merci dashed through the town. Eugene, Staremberg, and Prince 
Comraerci followed with 7,000 horse and foot. Patrols of cavalry 
rode the streets ; Staremberg seized the great square ; the barracks 
of four regiments were surrounded, and the men cut down as they 
appeared. 

Marshal Villeroy, hearing the tumult, hastily burned his papers 
and rode out attended only by a page. He was quickly snapped up 
by a party of Eugene's cavalry commanded by an Irishman named 
MacDonnell. Villeroy seeing himself in the hands of a soldier of 
fortune, hoped to escape by bribery. He made offer after oflTer. A 
thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse were refused by this poor 
Irish captain ; and Villeroy rode out of the town with his captor. 

T'le Marquis of Mongon, General Crenant, and other officers, 
shared the same fate, and Eugene assembled the town council to 
take an oath of allegiance, and supply him with 14,000 rations. All 
seemed lost. 

All was not lost. The Po gate was held by 35 Irishmen, and to 
Merci's '"harge and shout they answered with a fire that forced their 



246 APPENDIX. 

assailant to pass on to the rampart, where he seized a battery. Thi« 
unexpected and almost rash resistance was the very turning point of 
the attack. Had Merci got this gate, he had only to ride on and 
open the bridge to Prince Vaudemont. The entry of 3,000 men more, 
and on that side, would have soon ended the contest. 

Not far from this same gate of the Po were the quarters of two 
Irish regiments, Dillon (one of Mountcashel's old brigade) and Burke 
the Athlone regiment). Dillon's regiment was, in Colonel Lacy's 
absence, commanded by Major Mahony. He had ordered his regi 
ment to assemble for exercise at day-break, and lay down. He waa 
woke by the noise of the Imperial Cuirassiers passing hii lodgings. 
He ju-nped up, and finding how things were, got off to the two corps 
and found them turning out in their shirta to check the Imperialists, 
who swarmed round their quarters. 

He had just got his men together when General D'Arenes came 
up, put himself at the head of these regiments, who had nothing but 
their muskets, shirts, and cartouches about them. He instantly led 
them against Merci's force, and after a sharp struggle, drove them 
from the ramparts, killing large numbers, and taking many prisoners, 
amongst others Ma<DonneU, who returned to fight after securing 
Villeroy. 

In the mean time Estrague's regiment had made a post of a few 
houses in the great square : Count Revel had given the word " French 
to the ramparts," and retook All-Saints' Gate, while M. Praslin made 
head against the Imperial Cavalry patroles. But when Revel at- 
tempted to push further round the ramparts and regain St. Margaret's 
Gate, he was repulsed with heavy loss, and D'Arenes, who seems to 
have been every where, was wounded. 

It was now ten o'clock in the day, and Mahony had received orders 
to fight his way from the Po to the Mantua Gate, leaving a detach- 
ment to guard the rampart from which he had driven Merci. He 
pushed on, driving the enemy's infantry before him, but suffering 
much from their fire, when Baron Freiberg at the head of a regiment 
of Imperial Cuirassiers, burst into Dillon's regiment. For a while 
their case seemed desperate ; but almost naked as they were, they 
grappled with their foes. The linen shirt and the steel cuirass — the 
naked footman and the harnessed cavalier met, and the conflict was 
desperate and doubtful. Just at this moment Mahony grasped the 
bridle of Freiberg's horse, and bid him ask quarter. " No qu:jtei to 



SKEPCH OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 247 

day," said Freiberg, dashing^ his spurs into his horse ; he was instantly 
shot. The Cuirassiers saw and paused ; the Irish shouted and slashed 
at them. The volley came better and the sabres wavered. Few of 
the Cuirassiers lived to fly ; but all who survived did fly : and there 
stood these glorious fellows in the wintry streets, bloody, triumphant, 
half-naked. Bourke lost seven ofliicers and forty-two soldiers killed, 
and nine officers and fifty soldiers wounded ; Dillon had one oflScer 
and forty-nine soldiers killed, and twelve officers and seventy-nin* 
soldiers wounded. 

But what matter for death or wounds ! Cremona is saved. Engen« 
waited long for Vaudemont, but the French, guarded from Merci'i 
attack by the Irish picquet of 35, had ample time to evacuate the re^ 
doubt and ruin the bridge of boats. 

On hearing of Freiberg's death, Eugene made an eflfort to keep the 
town by frightening the council. On hearing of the destruction of the 
bridge, he despaired, and effected his retreat with consummate skill 
retaining Villeroy and 100 other ofllicers prisoners. 

Europe rang with applause. Mr. Forman mentions what we thinjv a 
veiy doubtful saying of Kmg William's about this event. There is 
no such question as to King Louis. He sent his public and formal 
thanks to them, and raised their pay forthwith. We would not like 
to meet the Irishman who, knowing these facts, would pass the north 
of Italy, and not track the steps of the Irish regiments through the 
streets and gates and ramparts of Cremona. 

lu the campaigns of 1703, the Irish distinguished themselves under 
Vendome in Italy, at Vittoria, Luzzara, Cassano, and Calcinate, and 
still more on the Rhine. When Villars won the battle of Freidlin- 
gen, the Irish had their share of the glory. At Spires, when Tallard 
defeated the Germans, they had more. Tallard had surprised the 
enemy, but their commander, the Prince of Hesse, rallied his men, anO 
although he had three horses shot under him, he repelled the attack 
and was getting his troops well into hand. At this crisis Nugent's 
regiment of horse was ordered to charge a corps of German cuirassiers 
They did so effectually. The German cavalry was cut up ; the 
French infantry thus covered returned \o their work, and Hesse wai 
Snally defeated with immense loss. 

And now the fortunes of France hegz n to waver, but the valoui Oi 
the Brigade did not change. 

21* 



248 APPENDIX. 

It is impossible in our space to do more than glance at the battles la 
which they won fame amid general defeat. 

A.t the battle of Hochstet or Blenheim in 1704, Marshal Tallard was 
defeated and taken prisoner by Marlborough and Eugene. The 
French and Bavarians lost 10,000 killed, 13,000 prisoners, and 90 
pieces of cannon. Yet amid this monstrous disaster, Clares dragoons 
were victorious over a portion of Eugene's famous cavalry, and took 
two standards. And in the battle of RamiUies in 1706, where Ville- 
roy was utterly routed, Clare's dragoons attempted to cover the wreck 
of the retreating French, broke through an English regiment, and fol- 
lowed them into the thronging van of the Allies. Mr. Forman states 
that they were generously assisted out of this predicament by an 
Italian regiment, and succeeded in carrying oflf the English colours 
they had taken. 

At the sad days of Oudenarde and Malplaquet, some of them were 
also present; but to the victories which brightened this time, so dark 
to France, the Brigade contributed materially. At the battle of A'- 
manza (13th March, 1707), several Irish regiments served under Ber- 
wick. In the early part of the day the Portuguese and Spanish auxi- 
liaries of England were broken, but the English and Dutch fought 
successfully for a long time ; nor was it till repeatedly charged by the 
elite of Berwick's army, including the Irish, that they were forced to 
retreat. 3,000 killed, 10,0J0 prisoners, and 120 standards attested the 
magnitude of the victory. It put King Philip on the throne of Spain. 
In the siege of Barcelona, Dillon's regiment fought with great effect. 
In their ranks was a boy of twelve years old ; he was the son of a 
Galway gentleman, Mr. Lally or O'Lally of TuUoch na Daly, and his 
uncle had sat in James's parliament of 1689. This boy, so early 
trained, was afterwards the famous Count Lally de Tollendal, whose 
services in every part of the globe make his execution a stain upon the 
honour as well as upon the justice of Louis XVI. And when Villars 
swept off the whole of Albemarle's battalions at Denain, in 1712, the 
Irish were in his van. 

The treaty of Utrecht and the dismissal of Marlborough put an end 
to the war in Flanders, but still many of the Irish continued to serve 
in Italy and Germany, and thus fought at Parma, Guastalla, and Phi- 
lipsburg. In the next war their great and peculiar achievement was 
at the battle of Fontenoy. 

Lt>uis in person had laid siege to Tournay ; Marshal Saxe was the 



SKETCH OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 24S 

actual commander, anrt had under him 79,000 men. ""he 9uke rf 
Cumberland advanced at the head of 55,000 men, chiefly English an*! 
Dutch, to relieve the town. At the Duke's approach, Saxe and tnt 
King advanced a few miles from Tournay with 45,000 men, leaving 
18.000 to continue the siege, and 6,000 to guard the Scheld. Saxo 
posted his army along a range of slopes thus ; his centre was on trie 
village of Fontenoy, his left stretched off through the wood of Barr, 
his right reached to the town of St. Antoine, close to the Scheld. I}» 
fortified his right and centre by the villages of Fontenoy and St A* 
toine, and redoubts near them. His extreme left was also strengthened 
by a redoubt in the wood of Barri, but his left centre, between tas. 
wood and the village of Fontenoy, was not guarded by anything sav« 
slight lines. Cumberland had the Dutch, under Waldeck, on his lei*, 
and twice they attempted to carry St. Antoine, but were repelled 
with heavy loss. The same fate attended the English in the centre 
who thrice forced their way to Fontenoy, but returned fewer an*' 
sadder men. Ingoklsby was then ordered to attack the wood of BaiT" 
■with Cumberland's right. He did so, and broke into the wood, whep 
the artillery of the redoubt suddenly opened on him, which, assiste<J 
by a constant fire from the French tirailleurs (light infantry), dro\« 
him back. 

The Duke resolved to make one great and final effort. Ho selects 
his best regiments, veteran English corps, and formed them into 
single column of 6,000 men. At its head were six cannon, and la 
many more on the flanks, which did good service. Lord John Ha 
commanded this great mass. 

Every thing being now ready, the column advanced slowly axo: 
evenly, as if on the larade ground. It mounted the slope of Sajg 
position, and pressed on between the wood of Barri and the village 
Fontenoy. In doing so, it was exposed to a cruel fire of artillery ai*J 
sharp-shooters ; but it stood the storm, and got behind Fonteno» 
The moment the object of the column was seen, the French troonn 
were hurried in upon them. The cavalry charged ; but the Englisa 
hardly paused to offer the raised bayonet, and then poured in a fiRa. 
fire. They disdained to rush at the picked infantry of Franca. Oi 
they went till within a short distance, and then threw in their bail* 
with great precision, the officers actually laying their canes along the 
muskets, to make the men fire low. Mass after mass of infantry wa« 
broken, and on went the column, reduced, but still apparently invi» 



250 APPENDIX. 

cible. Due Richelieu had four cannon hurried to the front, and he 
literally battered the head of the column, while the household 
cavalry surrounded them, and, in repeated charges, wore down their 
strength, but these French were fearful sufferers. Louis was about 
to leave the field. In this juncture Saxe ordered up his last reserve 
— the Irish Brigade. It consisted that day of the regiments of Clare, 
Lally, Dillon, Berwick, Roth, and Buckley, with Filzjames's horse 
O'Brien, Lord Clare, was in command. Aided by the French regi- 
ments of Normandy and Vaiiseany, they were ordered to charge upoa 
the flank of the English with fixed bayonets, without firing. Upon 
the approach of this splendid body of men, the English were halted 
on the slope of a hill, and up that slope the Brigade rushed rapidly 
and in fine order. " They were led to immediate action, and the 
stimulating cry of ' Cuimhnigidh ar Luimneac agus arfheile. na Sacsa- 
nacK'* was re-echoed from man to man. The fortune of the field waa 
no longer doubtful, and victory the most decisive crowned the arms 
of France." 

The English were weary with a long day's fighting, cut up by can- 
non, charge and musketry, and dispirited by the appearance of the 
Brigade — fresh, and consisting of young men in high spirits and disci- 
pline — still they gave their fire well and fatally : but they were lite- 
rally stunned by the shout and shattered by the Irish charge. They 
broke before the Irish bayonets, and tumbled down the far side of the 
hill, disorganized, hopeless, and falling by hundreds. The Irish 
troops did not pursue them far : the French cavalry and light troops 
pressed on till the relics of the column were succoured by some Eng- 
lish cavalry, and got within the batteries of their camp. The victory 
was bloody and complete. Louis is said to have ridden down to the 
Irish bivouac, and personally thanked them ; and George II., on hear- 
ing it, uttered that memorable imprecation on the Penal Code, 
*' Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such subjects." The on© 
English volley, and the short struggle on the crest of the hill, cost 
the Irish dear. One fourth of the officers, including Colonel Dillon, 
were killed, and one third of the men. 

Their history, after Fontenoy, may be easily given. In 1747, they 
carried the village of Laufeldt, after three attacks, in which anothef 
Colonel Dillon, 130 other ofllicers, and 1,600 men were killed ; and ii 

• ♦ Remember Limerick and British faith.' 



SKETCH OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 251 

1751 they were at Maestricht. Lally's regiment served in India, and 
the other regiments in Germany, during the war from 1756 to 1762; 
and during the American war, they fought in the French West India 
Islands. 

At this time they were greatly reduced, and at the Revolui na, 
eompletely broken up. 



rBB ERD. 



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